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Recently in Salon Mothers Who Think

Martha rules!
The world is her oyster stuffed with cilantro-garlic pesto.
By Jonathan Poletti
[10/22/99]

Teen girls not in a rush
Four random but not randy "tween" girls talk about boobs, boys and sex -- and why they're not in a hurry to have any of it.
By Karen Houppert
[10/22/99]

Freudian fear and cooked statistics
The recent media alert about sex-crazed "tweens" is mostly a lot of hoo-ha with naught behind it.
By Karen Houppert
[10/22/99]

Love me, love my guns
A shotgun tumbled from a closet and my husband drifted from my heart.
By Susan Straight
[10/21/99]

Against maternity clothes
What does a hipster mom-to-be do when she has to trade her leather jacket for pink jumpers? She cries.
By Sarah Madsen Hardy
[10/20/99]

Complete archives for Mothers Who Think

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Despite the brevity of the union (less than a year), I had been confused almost the entire time and frightened for months. It was confusion I did not anticipate, though I should have, because I married a stranger I met on the Internet. I'd let him woo me, allowed myself to fall for an online character I so much wished to be real. But certain things did not jibe.

Also Today Hitting below the belt Easy to get, hellish to deal with, restraining orders have become the ultimate weapon in domestic disputes. By Cathy Young

He claimed he was a recovered alcoholic who had mastered moderation. Yet I watched him devour entire bottles of wine. He popped pills, too. Yes, prescribed, but also addictive. He swore he wasn't hooked. I thought he was. His mother seemed to agree when I called her, distraught, one day. But she said that actually his drinking was a bigger concern. Apparently she knew more than I did.

A fight over the definition of addict. Another fight. Another. He would cry and weep, crawl across the floor, flush his pills. And then, I would catch him. More pills, alcohol. These were not the only secrets eventually revealed.

Time after goddamned time, he would tell me something he had "forgotten" to mention before the nuptials. That he was a Republican. That he'd hit women. These revelations made my skin crawl. One night, around 4 a.m -- by now I was exhausted all the time, worn down by sleep deprivation induced by his late-night epiphanies -- he woke me once more. He had to tell me: "I'm not exactly the person I told you I was." A blanket confession, too late. In my heart I already knew that he had deceived me on many counts to win me. (I had then deceived myself.) "But I'm still a good guy," he insisted. Was he? Then why had he lied, what else was he hiding?

Then came the pregnancy -- passive non-resistance on my part. He was a control freak who refused to use birth control. I was an idiot who didn't protest enough. Things had already gone to hell. A few nights after my discovery, we were driving to a concert. Arguing. I missed a turn. I swore. He puffed himself up, an angry blowfish. Got within a quarter-inch of my ear. He screamed. I truly thought my eardrum had shattered. Petrified, paralyzed, I gripped the wheel, recalling the night when, angry that I would not give in to some point, he squeezed my wrists until I thought they might break. We did not attend that show. I drove home, retrieved my child, went to spend the night at a friend's.

I could not have this baby. The marriage was a mistake. So was the pregnancy. I didn't want to spend the rest of my life entangled with a lying, drinking, pill-popping man who told me he had hit more than one woman in his life. This would not be my third strike.

I announced, tentatively, myself disbelieving, that I would have an abortion. He glared, hissed threateningly, "How would you like it if someone killed Henry?" I am a mother. You do not use the words "kill" and my son's name in the same sentence. I had already witnessed him forcefully pick up my child against his will. I had seen him leave my child curbside on a busy street, whining that Henry "is not playing fair."

The fear that had been inside of me unleashed. I said, "I am leaving." He lunged, grabbed me. I broke free, tried to run, but he -- 6-foot-2, 280 pounds -- puffed up, blocked the doorway. There was this look in his eyes. Neon-flashing recollections of what he'd admitted doing to the others. I, agnostic, began to pray.

God answered. I slipped out and ran -- to my lawyer's. My husband's attacks, verbal and physical, were grounds for a temporary protective order. I picked up my son from school and told him that we could never go home again. I didn't tell him, right away, why. My head was too full. I said we were going to stay with friends for a little while. That it would be fun, "like a vacation." My voice, I knew, was unconvincing. We moved in with friends. I called the women's shelter. Hide, I was told.

Too late. He knew where I was staying. He e-mailed. He called, all hours. He cried. It was as if he wasn't merely a man distraught, but a man out of control. One day he left a string of urgent messages. Something about the gerbil. Henry's gerbil was dead. He said it must've been the wind. Or a cat. A cat? We don't have a cat. When I sneaked over -- he was at work -- to retrieve a few things, I found the gerbil cage smashed to pieces on the floor. The wind?

The messages continued. One day he said he would pay for an abortion. The next he rambled, said he would sue to stop this abortion, force me to give birth, take the child.

The protective order expired and I filed for a temporary restraining order, which clearly stated he could not contact me in any manner. The e-mails continued. One taunted that he knew he was in violation. So what? What was I going to do? I went to a lawyer. My ex was found to have violated the protective order. He got a suspended sentence and six months' probation. A permanent restraining order was delivered.

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