FAMILY | THE MEMOIRIST

Only My Eyes Were Invited, By Facebook, to The Baptism of My Own Granddaughter

I was shocked to see my family, in all their glory, on social media.

I never saw it coming.

It’s not easy being despicable.

For some.

I cannot remember the date my own granddaughter was baptized.

You must think me despicable.

Possibly, I suppose. But there’s more.

I wasn’t invited.

The pictures were lovely.

They always are.

My granddaughter was born during the pandemic of 2020. Participants were limited. The lack of that invite was understandable due to restrictions.

I know that date well.

After all, my daughter gave birth to my granddaughter.

However, being excluded from the new baby’s baptism was not understandable and I am no longer sure of the date it took place.

Maybe the pain surrounding it created a memory block?

The carefully orchestrated snub was quite malicious.

It’s not easy being despicable.

For some.

Being shunned shattered my heart.

No family could deny that the church held a special place in my heart. For six years, my voluntary involvement there included being an Elder.

I also rolled my lawnmower, weed whacker, and leaf blower, from my home three blocks away to tend to the church’s grass and property.

My love and devotion ran deep.

I made no secret about the beautiful significance of baptism. I convinced my un-baptized husband to have a joint ceremony with our firstborn. A heart-filled celebration followed the momentous occasion.

Joyful. Meaningful. Never-to be-forgotten.

My love of the church is tightly woven, and intertwined into the very fabric of my being.

After years of going to church together, my immediate family no longer cared to join me. The kids and my husband preferred to sleep late.

I attended Sunday services alone.

Now, years later, my daughter has had two children. I began raising her firstborn, her son, who was just weeks old when placed in my care in 2017.

He is not yet baptized, which adds layers of irony and sadness.

I frequently asked my daughter her thoughts regarding my desire to have her son baptized. Legally, I imagine there was no basis to defer to my daughter.

I gave weight to her position, though, because she is my flesh and blood, his biological mom, and I love her.

Morals, respect, and love guided my decision to wait until she was ready.

Because, what if?

What if the 1% chance of her reuniting with her son to raise him, happened?

I lived in limbo regarding his religious direction and care.

My divorce coincided with the first year of gaining custody, or permanent guardianship, of my grandson.

My dream, my vision of being co-grandparents, would not be realized. His path of little to no involvement in childcare prevailed.

Though my ex-husband dated before the divorce was finalized, got engaged and remarried within three years, his disdain for my existence remained evident behind the scenes.

I had moved on spiritually, physically, and emotionally, and he, physically.

Emotionally, and psychologically, he grasped for control wherever it could be found. Though his denials would be quick, revenge seemed to be at the forefront.

And so, a new grandbaby and a baptism offered him the opportunity of a lifetime to cause pain.

Mine.

He took the ball and ran with it.

I never saw it coming.

There they were, in all their glory, on Facebook.

My ex, his girlfriend, and my new granddaughter with her dad, all stood with my daughter on a stage.

My ex had been the kind of father who had minimal involvement with our daughter during her most challenging adolescent times.

Now, though, he had zeroed in on her vulnerabilities and created a massive wedge to keep her away from me.

There is no age limit on parental alienation.

It’s not easy being despicable.

For some.

He had attended none of her psychiatric appointments as she suffered in her formative years. His fatherly role did not include any treks to family court sessions later in life or even to extend rides home from jail or other times of great need.

Those endeavors would have interfered with his preferred pleasures.

Those ‘annoyances’ in her life were inconvenient to him and left for me to handle.

Miraculously, he was suddenly invested in our daughter’s spiritual future and orchestrated baptizing her daughter.

But it was my love and devotion for the church that ran deep, I cried inside.

There they were at an unfamiliar church, in all their glory, and posted it all on social media.

The entourage posed with frozen smiles, slightly angled bodies, and faces cocked a bit to the side, like every picture of them I had seen for a year.

Facebook and Instagram had yet another contribution of contrived perfection.

They stood there feigning pride during this baptism, at the sacred ritual that meant little to them, which was evidenced by their smiles that never reached their eyes.

Do they practice this pose in a mirror?

Is there a drill, or do they have it down pat?

Is that a camera? Quick, assume the position of beauty!

I had trouble breaking my gaze from the online photos.

Once the sharp edges of shock softened, I called my daughter to ask her why and how this unfolded.

She scrambled, offered lame non-sensical excuses, and followed up with an apology.

I wanted you to be there, Mom, I really did, but…

My daughter was ill-equipped to interfere when her dad took the reins and instructed her that they would have a baptism.

Manipulation, motivation, and ego easily overpowered her child-like mind that believes in good intent and fairy tale endings.

It didn’t take long for that truth to be unraveled.

Yet, somehow, on every birthday and holiday post-divorce, I am held to a standard of inclusivity.

This standard is not honored by others.

I am demeaned and judged as despicable for making plans for my grandson and me.

It has been said that I should be the bigger person.

The silent scream roars in my head. ‘ I already am!’

Does no one remember that baptism?

I do.

I also remembered her baby shower, hosted by my ex and his girlfriend. No word or invitation came my way. I imagine the guests murmured that I really am despicable.

After all, what mom doesn’t show up or even send a gift to her own daughter’s baby shower?

Oh, yeah, one that finds out after the fact. On social media, of course.

I have never outwardly reacted to reveal my inner turmoil. I shoved down the bubbling distress and chose not to release it on the offenders.

I will not perform for them.

There is an odd expectation that I extend invitations to people who have no respect or consideration for my grandson and me.

In actuality, I am slammed for not organizing and hosting group functions to their liking, when I do invite them.

It’s not easy being despicable.

For some.

What do people do when they tire of swimming upstream?

All I can do, at this point, is stay on the high road of discomfort and listen to my echoing pleas for mutual respect blow away in the wind.

And keep swimming.

Expect that nothing will change, and I will never be disappointed.

A once-in-a-lifetime baptism can never be replayed to include me.

My heart, mind, prayer, and integrity will guide me as I continue on my path of wellness for my grandson and me.

It’s not easy being despicable.

For some.

It would be impossible for me.

For that, I am thankful.

Find more personal stories here:

Ready to read endlessly as a member? Join here for pennies a day!

Substack | Simily | Kindle Vella Nonfiction | Kindle Vella Fiction

Copyright © 2022 Lisa Gerard Braun. All rights reserved.