Each culture has its own traditions; Some cultures will not allow their women to appear in public without a veil over their face. Some cultures insist that their women wear wigs – only allowing the husband to see their actual hair. Some have elaborate traditional weddings. Celebrations on a new baby’s birth only after the baby has lived for 100 days. Some value having sons more than daughters. Some cultures are based on a paternal order of things. Others on a maternal order.

When it comes to my own traditions, there are some I too was raised knowing of. A beautiful wedding with a celebration after exchanging vows. Followed by a wonderful honeymoon to begin your new life as a joined couple.

If you are blessed soon afterward, a baby may follow which brings its own set of traditions.

I must confess to you all how pathetically envious I am of others. I didn’t have the traditional moment when your man would fall graciously to one knee – holding your hand and cradling a ring symbolizing a promise to you. And then asking you to marry him and make him the happiest man alive. Nope, that didn’t happen to me. I’m afraid after being with my guy for three years, I more or less told him to either make an honest woman out of me or just go our own merry way.

It was really a sad day – our wedding day. I supposed I had just expected so much more. There was no great planning – no expense involved. I had worked as a Paralegal for a Judge – He married us in our office. It was his very first wedding, so at least, he was very excited. My husband to be worked that day and was late getting to the office. He wore a clean pair of jeans and a fresh shirt – no tie or coat. I know guys, your absolute dream wedding, right? I wore a beautiful new dress with gorgeous heels, a small bunch of flowers and white lace gloves. A rather odd couple we were indeed.

Honestly, I felt like I had simply gotten dressed up for a doctor’s appointment. Just another day with a fancy dress.

Almost six years and just four months after I lost my father to suicide, we found out we were pregnant. A joyful event in all couple’s lives, no? I was amazed and afraid it wasn’t real. But when I saw the ultra sound, I cried for days from utter joy.

I suppose what I was expecting in the sense of traditions, was at least a family dinner to celebrate our wedding. Or even a nice baked cake – could have been a store bought cake, for it would have been the thought behind it that mattered.

I felt so alone. Like nobody cared at all about this step we wanted to take and share in our lives. Then when I was pregnant, I waited nine months for a baby shower. But there was none. I always assumed my mother in law would arrange it and invite their huge extended family. After all, in all the years I had known them, they had many such celebrations and such for everyone else. I’ve seen her even create with her own hands a beautiful wedding cake for my husband’s cousin Melissa. Surely she would do as much for her eldest son and her daughter in law.

But she didn’t. She never even bothered to come when her granddaughter was born. I had absolutely nobody with me during the birth of our first baby. I mean I was completely alone except for the doctor and two nurses. My husband was hungry – so he left to go and eat. And nobody else had the time to waste watching me bring a baby girl into this world. My doctor kept saying, “Are you sure there is no one I can call?” She told me later, that in all the years she had been delivering babies, I was the first and only one who had done it all alone…

The moment I heard my baby’s first cry, I cried and cried. I felt so utterly pathetic. Perhaps it was just the hormones.

Pathetic because I only wanted the stupid, silly traditions I had witnessed so many others receive. I wanted to be surrounded by crying new grandmothers – Jubilant new grandfathers handing out cigars in honor of my new addition to the family.

I wanted to be surrounded by family and friends showing me with baby clothes and bibs – car seats and tiny booties. Pacifiers and mobiles to hang above a crib. But received absolutely nothing at all.

I had seen so many joyful mother in laws who had even picked out a wonderful new crib for their new grand baby. I found an old one in a used furniture store just weeks before her birth. Still holding out for that baby shower or something.

I’ve come to the harsh conclusion dear readers, that I just don’t deserve these wonderful traditions. Not sure why but it must be. Each new addition included nothing more, nothing less.

Yes, I weeped – selfishly I weeped. I wanted all those memories for my children’s memory books. For myself to share with them about how much I was loved, how much they were loved. But I don’t have any of that dear readers to share. Anything I have, I have done by myself. Its been hard for me 21 years later, to watch as my own mother in law did so much for other family members but not for me and mine.

How pathetic to this day to see other young mothers swollen with life inside of them – being showered with such love and tenderness. Spoiled with caring words and gestures. Surrounded by those who love them so greatly and wish so badly just to be a part of this miracle of life at hand.

So what was it about me:

Could I dare to believe a mother in law could truly ever love me when my own mother hated me so?

Could I dare to believe my mother in law could possibly take the place give me so much of what I had never had?

Could I dare to think that my mother and father in law could possibly fill in the huge gap created by the loss of my parents?

Can I share a secret with you all?

I have actually hand sewn tiny new born clothes, blankets, booties and the like, for my own grandchildren. No, they are far from being born – but just in case God calls me home before I see them, I want them to know just how much they are loved.

I’m sorry for myself and for our three children. Sorry that, apparently, because of me not only have I done without the luxuries of such simple traditions, but our children have as well. I feel it is all my fault.

I suppose it’s a bit late in the game for regrets. But still, they are there. If I had known all that I would have to endure – all the pain, all the tears, all the sorrow – would I have done what I did? Or would I have run as fast as my feet would have carried me in the opposite direction?

What would you have done if you were able to see your future?

I know, how pathetic of me to want those simple traditions that would have held so much value to me. Why would such have made me feel as if I was worth the trouble and time of some?

Do we not desire to be a part of something bigger than ourselves? A part of a lineage, a new continuing generation? After having survived leaving one existence that only brought me misery and great pain – I guess somewhere in the back of my brain, I felt I deserved at least that much. I was wrong dear readers – dead wrong.

Because even if you grow up in the den of hell lorded over by Satan himself, there is just no guarantee that heaven’s gates are waiting for you once you find your way out of hell.