The Rivers of Hell...


I have emerged from the underworld of hell, and I am alive to tell the story. Hell is nothing like we think it is--the only burning flame of fire is the fever that licks an infant brow. Hell is full of poop and diahrea, spilling out the backs of diapers, stinking, stenching, retchid, abundant rivers of poop. Volcanoes of vomit. There is no time to sit down or rest your feet. Days and nights are spent slaving in the hot, steamy laundry room, transferring endless piles of laundry from one machine into another. As a particularly cruel joke, you are forced to endure the shrill shrieking cries of your spawn who has been transformed into a miniature gargoyle creature, enraged for hours by something as simple as your refusal to let him eat the cat food. Your beautiful angel becomes a demonic creature only a mother could love. You are <> this close to losing it. You wonder what bond of love has you standing up to your elbows in a flood of bodily fluids rocking and hushing a kicking child into a state of calm. The power of love is great.

When Issac was sick these past few days, he took an extreme attachment to his sippy cup. Now he takes it with him everywhere. It has become an appendage, like Captain Hook's silver hand. At least the boy has enough sense to rehydrate himself.

When Issac was sick these past few days, I thought I was going to go crazy. I felt so bad for him--you can't explain to him that it's going to go away soon, that it's important for him to rest, that he needs to eat this rice and this bland oatmeal in order to get better, that milk is not good for his tummy, that he should just relax and watch this movie with mommy. He wanted to go outside and play in the sun and sweat out all his energy and health. He wanted to kick and scream and cry for 45 minutes when I decided that the cat food bowl officially goes out of his reach forever. He had a similar reaction when I decided that cheerios are for eating and not for taking out of the bag handful by handful to create a cheerio castle in his toybox. He had a fit for about thirty minutes when I couldn't tell that he wanted his sippy cup to be all the way full, not just 3/4 full. He went on an eating strike. He had fits about his shoes being on, then fits about them being off. He wanted to be held someplace in between "up" and "down." He wanted to play someplace between "outdoors" and "indoors." In short, his temper tantrums increased by about 50% and he had toxic sopping wet diapers every twenty minutes in addition to this. He wouldn't give me kisses. It was hard. I have seen things you would never believe.

I'm not looking forward to next time.