Toot and Pickle are/were really sick with a fever, gross cough and ever flowing nose goo. T threw up all over me and the foyer two Saturday nights ago. I’m a sympathy gagger. Holding my children’s hair back becomes a test of intestinal fortitude in both metaphor and reality. Here – let me comfort you, my tiny darling – Oh my god, now get out of the way so Mommy can leave an offering for the porcelain goddess. Very maternal.
Because P was sick (and had his 6 month shots on Monday) for most of last week he slept poorly, waking practically every hour. Needless to say, all the sleep deprivation has left me crabby and on the way to a nasty cold myself. There is this bad alchemy that occurs when I’m really tired, sick and concerned. I end up feeling overwhelmed and self-indulgently angry. Yeah, the children are screaming in concert but I watch myself and I know that if I really wanted to I could push myself to patience. But there’s this devil on my shoulder who observes (quite rightly) that I am almost never alone, never fully rested and that my irritability is not only natural but my right and privilege for being so totally devoted to my always-nursing, ever-needy spawn.
How can I be possessed by my mother when she’s not even dead?
How can I be possessed by my mother when she’s not even dead?
cause she’s, secretly, a witch-woman!