2 views
i dont want to be a bad mom
They tell you that you don’t know anything really until you are married, and then they tell you that you don’t know anything until you have a child.
And so, I got married.
And I have a child.
I know less than I knew before.
It is crying, weighing in my arms like a load of bricks.
They say when you hold your child for the first time. It’s like you are holding the whole world.
I am crushed under the world I am holding.
It is not stopping to cry.
Please stop crying. Please.
It’s a girl. I think. I am looking right at it, and I see through it. I am in a white bed, with a white sheet, and I am in pain.
“She looks like you.” The daddy says.
“No, it doesn’t.” there is something stuck in my throat
It is sad. It is sad that I am holding it. When the nurses hold it, it doesn’t cry. When its daddy holds it, it doesn’t cry. It only cries when I hold it.
I shove it into the nurses arms.
“One more day and we can go home.” The Daddy says. “With our beautiful baby girl.”
I don’t see beautiful. I only see in grey scale.
“Remember the baby room.” he pry’s gently.
I do. I remember him painting it a pink that looks almost white. I remember the crib and the cozy blankets we bought.
We leave the hospital. I don’t want to leave the hospital.
The nurses can take care of it way better than I can. I should not be leaving the hospital.
It doesn’t let me sleep. I have purple bags beneath my eyes, I bathe it while the daddy is at work. the bath water is cool against my skin. I message its small head and shock of brown hair. In a circular motion. Over and over again. it lulls me to sleep.
I am so tired. And she is finally not crying.
And I close my eyes.
One. Two. Three.
Three seconds. Its’ heads slip underneath the surface in less than three seconds. She turns blue in less than two. My heart cracks in less than one.
Breathe. Breathe. Please breathe
I am a bad mom.
My hands shake.
My knees tremble and I think that my throat will always be forcing me to cry but blocking me right at the end.
The ER is frighteningly loud. Barely six month after her birth and I am back.
She is fine. The doctors say that she is fine. They say keep an eye out. They say come back if anything changes. They say I am a good mother. Because I came. Because I took care of her.
I almost killed her because I am so far away.
It hates me.
It is learning how to crawl
The daddy puts child protectors on everything. He puts a guardrail on the steps.
I didn’t even think of that.
I didn’t even think of its’ safety.
It says dada
It says mama
It says mama with anger in its tiny red lips. I can tell.
I almost let it die again.
0 to 2
I am losing. I am losing and failing, and I don’t deserve to be its mom.
It can pull itself up now. It crawls to the coffee table, puts its’ tiny hands on the edge and pulls up.
It is going to be a ballerina
It laughs. The sweetest laugh. I can hear it through the fog I am in.
“Mama, mama” outstretched arms.
It still cries. It makes my ears ring.
I have slapped it three times because I was so sleep deprived.
0 to 5. A landslide.
It has shoes that daddy bought it. Red shoes. Its favorite color is red. My crayon colored walls can attest to that.
It can run. It runs into my arms, it loves tickles, it is beautiful even in gray scale.
It is getting bigger and bigger, and I am falling behind.
I tell the daddy about my dark mind. I try to be as honest as I can be and yet I still lie
How long have you been feeling like this?
How long have you tried to breathe and free your throat from its permanent tears?
How long have you failed our child?
All I can tell the daddy is that I have been like this from the moment it was born.
0 to infinite.
I have failed. He still holds my hand.
It will grow up with scars along its body
It will never hear me tell it- I love you
It can count from one through ten. It can speak in almost full sentences. It is smart and bright
“Mommy play with me. Mommy please I want to play restaurant with you.”
My legs don’t move. My hands are string.
“Sorry honey.” I say,
The couch is the place where I am on for most of the day.
“I cant play with you now.”
“Mommy.” She wails. She sobs. She shouts.
She is making me go deaf.
“Mommy cant.” I shriek.
She recoils.
“I can’t, I can’t, mommy cannot do anything.”
0 to infinite plus one.
© infinite
And so, I got married.
And I have a child.
I know less than I knew before.
It is crying, weighing in my arms like a load of bricks.
They say when you hold your child for the first time. It’s like you are holding the whole world.
I am crushed under the world I am holding.
It is not stopping to cry.
Please stop crying. Please.
It’s a girl. I think. I am looking right at it, and I see through it. I am in a white bed, with a white sheet, and I am in pain.
“She looks like you.” The daddy says.
“No, it doesn’t.” there is something stuck in my throat
It is sad. It is sad that I am holding it. When the nurses hold it, it doesn’t cry. When its daddy holds it, it doesn’t cry. It only cries when I hold it.
I shove it into the nurses arms.
“One more day and we can go home.” The Daddy says. “With our beautiful baby girl.”
I don’t see beautiful. I only see in grey scale.
“Remember the baby room.” he pry’s gently.
I do. I remember him painting it a pink that looks almost white. I remember the crib and the cozy blankets we bought.
We leave the hospital. I don’t want to leave the hospital.
The nurses can take care of it way better than I can. I should not be leaving the hospital.
It doesn’t let me sleep. I have purple bags beneath my eyes, I bathe it while the daddy is at work. the bath water is cool against my skin. I message its small head and shock of brown hair. In a circular motion. Over and over again. it lulls me to sleep.
I am so tired. And she is finally not crying.
And I close my eyes.
One. Two. Three.
Three seconds. Its’ heads slip underneath the surface in less than three seconds. She turns blue in less than two. My heart cracks in less than one.
Breathe. Breathe. Please breathe
I am a bad mom.
My hands shake.
My knees tremble and I think that my throat will always be forcing me to cry but blocking me right at the end.
The ER is frighteningly loud. Barely six month after her birth and I am back.
She is fine. The doctors say that she is fine. They say keep an eye out. They say come back if anything changes. They say I am a good mother. Because I came. Because I took care of her.
I almost killed her because I am so far away.
It hates me.
It is learning how to crawl
The daddy puts child protectors on everything. He puts a guardrail on the steps.
I didn’t even think of that.
I didn’t even think of its’ safety.
It says dada
It says mama
It says mama with anger in its tiny red lips. I can tell.
I almost let it die again.
0 to 2
I am losing. I am losing and failing, and I don’t deserve to be its mom.
It can pull itself up now. It crawls to the coffee table, puts its’ tiny hands on the edge and pulls up.
It is going to be a ballerina
It laughs. The sweetest laugh. I can hear it through the fog I am in.
“Mama, mama” outstretched arms.
It still cries. It makes my ears ring.
I have slapped it three times because I was so sleep deprived.
0 to 5. A landslide.
It has shoes that daddy bought it. Red shoes. Its favorite color is red. My crayon colored walls can attest to that.
It can run. It runs into my arms, it loves tickles, it is beautiful even in gray scale.
It is getting bigger and bigger, and I am falling behind.
I tell the daddy about my dark mind. I try to be as honest as I can be and yet I still lie
How long have you been feeling like this?
How long have you tried to breathe and free your throat from its permanent tears?
How long have you failed our child?
All I can tell the daddy is that I have been like this from the moment it was born.
0 to infinite.
I have failed. He still holds my hand.
It will grow up with scars along its body
It will never hear me tell it- I love you
It can count from one through ten. It can speak in almost full sentences. It is smart and bright
“Mommy play with me. Mommy please I want to play restaurant with you.”
My legs don’t move. My hands are string.
“Sorry honey.” I say,
The couch is the place where I am on for most of the day.
“I cant play with you now.”
“Mommy.” She wails. She sobs. She shouts.
She is making me go deaf.
“Mommy cant.” I shriek.
She recoils.
“I can’t, I can’t, mommy cannot do anything.”
0 to infinite plus one.
© infinite
