In the local news this week there’s a story of child abuse that resulted in a little girl’s death.  The mother’s courtroom testimony described the events that led to the toddler’s demise.  I broke down and cried after reading about it in the paper.  I cried again in the car when they mentioned it on the radio.  In fact, I’ve been thinking about her almost all the time, and there’s nothing I can do to help her.

Part of parenting, as we know, is encountering moments, sometimes hours, oh hell, weeks of extreme frustration and anger.  There have been times that I couldn’t imagine how I would survive my baby.  What comes to mind were the endless nights when my oldest was a newborn.  I had no help with the feedings,  no peers that could offer advice on how to handle colic, I was bleary-eyed from a few hours of sleep over several days, hadn’t bathed or eaten since God knows when, and sobbed almost more than my baby did.  There were those horrible split seconds when thoughts of pain and hurt and just frantic escape nibbled at my mind, but thankfully I returned from the brink of madness when he’d finally go to sleep.  I’d peer into his crib, or wherever he’d managed to conk out, and watch his amazing, miniature chubby body, the Bhudda-belly, the dried formula on his chin, his arm thrust out like he was a tiny swordsman, and his little lips sucking on his dream bottle.  This amazing, living and loud person that came from my being was all I had in this world, and he trusted me, implicitly.  How could I forsake that trust?

Motherhood is messy, and stressful, and really damn hard.  I know that I’ll become a howling misfit when my buttons are pushed (they’re pushing my buttons while I’m trying to type this, in fact), but it won’t go further.  I gave my girls extra hugs this week, and even gave one to my shocked teen. 

I’m still crying though.

Print Friendly