The Musings of My Mind

Category: Motherhood

Misery Pt. 2

I walked away from him to grab a diaper from the changing table, but I stopped in my tracks and considered not changing him. I wondered to myself if diaper rashes can lead to something greater, ultimately being a cause of death, but in the middle of my deceitfulness, he let out a piercing cry that nearly shattered my ear drums. At that moment, something inside of me snapped. While he screamed, my anger screamed louder. The walls were talking, reminding me of each and every thing I’ve done for such an ungrateful bastard. They told me I deserve silence, so I walked back toward the crib slowly, fuming and submerged in wrath, and imagined throwing him out of the window. But that would take the fun out of doing the job myself. I reached into his crib and picked him up. His face was two shades lighter than the blood I imagine will spew out of him once I‘m finished, tears streamed out of his big brown eyes faster than little ants in roaming in their colony, and I waited to feel something. I waited to feel anything for him that wasn’t hatred or resentment. As my body grew hot and his screams got louder, I knew that feeling would never come.

“SHUT UP!” I yelled directly into his face.

For a moment, he stopped. His eyes wide open and his mouth shut, he looked at me in amazement possibly trying to figure out what just occurred. I drew my face back from him, hoping the problem had been solved, but it was short-lived. He wriggled his little body in my hold, swatting his hands at me and screaming. He’s always screaming. I violently threw him back in his crib, groaning and grabbing my hair tightly as tears rolled down my face. Two big babies just sitting in a room crying. Except, one baby was bigger and badder and refused to be outdone. Feeling like new strength had resurrected itself inside of me, I eerily smiled, deciding that I would end this once and for all. I walked to the kitchen, leaving his relentless cries behind, and filled a pitcher up with scalding hot water. When I got back to the room, I placed the pitcher of water on the night table. His cries were weakening, but my ears were still ringing from his previous laments. I peered at him from over the crib railing, my face cold and still, wondering if I was still angry. Again, I searched his face for a cute little nose, eyes that could make me weak, or a mouth that I wanted to receive kisses from, but nothing. I need him to disappear. That’s what would make me love him.

Instead of putting him through my personal torture chamber, I thought maybe if I asked nicely, he’d stop and I wouldn’t want to kill him. I smiled sweetly, wiped his tears, and stroked his face gently.

“Baby, do you want to stop crying for mommy?” I awaited a miracle, but it never came. I could tell he was getting angrier by the way he tried to slap my hand away, scratching me in the process. A slew of obscenities came out of my mouth and next thing I knew, my hands were wrapped around his neck.

“I was trying to be nice, you ungrateful little shit.”

My hands got tighter with each passing second, the color being drained from his face little by little, and then he started turning blue. I could feel him trying to get out of my grasp, but he was getting weaker. His writhing was slowing down, his eyes slowly closing, and finally, I had my silence. I released him from my chokehold and watched in amusement as he gasped for air. His wailing continued shortly after, but in the meantime, I fetched the pitcher of water. His chest rose and fell quickly and heavily. He tried to catch his breath, but between the tears and the lack of air in his lungs, he might just end up killing himself before I have to. For a brief moment, I thought I felt a twinge of pain, causing me to take a step back and ponder my actions, but then I realized it wasn’t pain. It was excitement. I grabbed the pitcher of water and poured it over him. He turned his face quickly, but with his mouth open, there wasn’t much he could to avoid the splash. Steam rose up and I could hear him try trying to cry out in pain, but it came out as a forceful gargle. Completely soaked in his blue onesie, he rolled around the crib looking for an escape, but each time he got to his knees, I pushed him down. Blinded by droplets of water in his eyes, he felt his way around the crib in search of his pacifier, in search of something to save him. I found the pacifier and pushed it further away, laughing at the sight of him looking hopeless. I looked at the clock perched up on the lima bean green wall of his nursery and saw that Chad was due home at any moment. I was running out of time and needed to end it once and for all. I took one last look at him, then reached to pick him up. Even though I harmed him, he still reached for me. His eyes told a sorrowful tale that could liquefy cement, and all he wanted was a hug. His little frown trembled from fear and defeat, he extended his arms out to me saying, “” If only he knew how much I hated being called that.

I laid him down on the changing table behind his crib, and I began to choke him, once again. This time, he watched me intently as I tried to bring him to an early death. He didn’t wriggle as much, nor did he try to fight me. He seemed to be accepting defeat. Either that, or I’d weakened him. I allowed my hands to strengthen around his tiny neck, strangling him and attempting to rob him of his last breathe. Veins began to appear in each part of his body, but mostly his face. As I held him down tighter and longer than the last time, I finally began to see his life vanishing. I could see it escaping his small frame, but really, it was all in his eyes. But then, I heard the door squeak. Out of fear and shock, I released him immediately and turned to the door to see Chad staring at our baby. My body began to shake, mortified that I’d been caught, scared that I’d have to explain, and upset that I allowed myself to get caught. I slowly distanced myself from the table and tried to read his face, but he stood there emotionless.


I didn’t know what to say. Honey, I tried to kill our kid?
With his hands in his pockets, he walked over to the baby and picked him up. Chad rocked him back and forth, rubbed his head softly and told him everything would be okay. I stood there frozen in my place, my mouth slightly ajar in amazement as he slowly gave our child back his life. He kissed his forehead and then the turned to face me.

With his face still lacking any sort of emotion, anything telling me that he thought I was a monster, he continued to cradle the baby in his arms. He looked into our baby’s eyes, furrowed his brow, then looked into mine, and asked,

“Do you need a hand with this?”



I lied still in a rare silence. My life has become a chaotic embrace of hair pulling, coddling, and faint echoes of mental screams reverberating in my mind. My body aches in places I didn’t think were possible, and there is no one here to soothe me but my own bitterness. Chad is working late yet again, and I’m sure I’ll barely get see the back of his perfectly coiffed head in the morning. Oddly enough, I can’t remember him being so enthralled by his work before the baby.

Oh, the baby. The monster that has come from within me. I long for the day that I look upon his face and feel something other than sheer regret. I’d never dare speak such malignance in front of other mothers, normal mothers, yet I can’t help but feel like my child is a bottom-feeding moocher who will destroy me for years to come. When he wails and wails, finds himself throwing a tantrum or even begins to feel colicky, I want nothing more than to wrap my hands around his tiny, pale neck and squeeze ever so tightly until he stops breathing. I’d like to say that when I got my very first look at him, I felt happy. I might even like to say that I felt blessed. What I truly felt was hate. I was rabid with annoyance at the fact that he wouldn’t just stop…needing so much. He was sucking the life out of me – not to mention completely obliterating my nipples — and I’m afraid I’ve reached the point where I can only find solace in imagining that he’ll choke to death on his own spit. Perhaps he’ll be diagnosed with cancer and there’ll be nothing we can do. I don’t get lucky in these ways, though. Instead, he gets the flu, diaper rashes, or diarrhea.

When I found out I was pregnant, my feelings were an amalgamation of shock, excitement, and acceptance. Chad and I weren’t even trying, but we were in such a good place that we just chalked it up to being something that would add to our dizzy happiness. We were like two teenagers who’d just discovered the wonders of sex, and needless to say, he was calling out of work multiple times a week. Our days were filled with late mornings, sunshine seeping in through the curtains reminding us that a new day had arrived, prompting more love and exhilaration. We were fun. Our smiles were nearly running off of our sun kissed faces. Every weekend, we’d drive down to the beach and spend countless hours riding waves, making bonfires, and sharing secrets with each other and the star-studded night sky that loomed above. I suppose we really were acting like teenagers because we never once discussed what would happen if we were to procreate. Yet, at the time, we had formed a home beneath the brim of serenity’s hat, and we didn’t think anything could ever cloud our blissful reality.

But then, something did.

Once we got closer and closer to our due date, dread became a third guest in our home while we awaited its replacement. It drew a distance between me and Chad that until now, remains unchanged. We’ve now become grey, better yet charcoal. Our fire is dead and the love has long escaped our grasp. The baby scared it away, it scared everything away. I suppose I, or we, should take some blame, but I refuse to. I tried to abort it, but by the time I realized that bringing life into the world is horrid, I no longer qualified for an abortion. I tried drinking whiskey for three days straight, I drank vinegar, and I even called a friend of mine and got her to let me do a line of coke. Needless to say, I tried everything to make this thing die inside of me, but nothing happened. So, I kept the baby. Be it the error of the decade, I kept the fucking baby. And now, I can barely stand to look at it. The worst part is that I can’t even tell anyone. I know chad hates it too by the way he refuses to relay any form of parental affection or duty onto him, but he’ll never say it. I’ll never say it. The old us probably would, but not this decrepit version of us.

I may loathe this thing that I created, but I’m a decent mother. I don’t neglect it, I feed it, change it, make sure it’s clean, and I even take it to the park to get some fresh air. As I mindlessly push his stroller back and forth in an attempt to create a soothing environment, I sometimes overhear new mothers complaining about they’re lethargy. They discuss their hatred for breastfeeding, saggy skin and stretch marks, but it’s always worth it for their little bundles of shit. Joy, bundles of joy. I even once eavesdropped on one of the mothers who was worrying she might dislike her baby because she let him cry for a few minutes before adhering to his beckoning screams. She explained her post-partum depression symptoms, and then she cried. I almost laughed. I thought to myself if that’s what they considered terrible, I can only imagine what I’d be branded if they discovered the true nature of my motherly ineptitude.

Suddenly, I heard him. I’d been lying there dazed by my own mortification that I forgot the baby actually existed. All the hairs on my body erected themselves. Effortlessly rolling my eyes, I fought the urge to cry. As I sat up lifelessly, I suddenly felt that I resembled a robot. I was on autopilot. I did everything I was supposed to, I played my part, I was seen, but not heard. Yet, I lacked a soul. My once lively, twinkling hazel eyes were now dead and cold. They no longer held the buoyancy Chad was so fond of. They told the world everything there was to know about who I’d become, bringing truth to the expression of eyes being windows to the soul, or lack thereof. I walked to the nursery slowly, dreading each step that brought me closer. I couldn’t remember if he was hungry or if his diaper needed to be changed. Maybe he was just screaming to piss me off. I walked into the room and was immediately ambushed by the vile stench of baby poop. I fought the urge to vomit and walked over to his crib. I looked at him over the railing and watched him writhe around in agony over something he couldn’t tell me was bothering him. He lifted his arms and his little hands reached for me. They reached for a mother who would pick him up and rock him to sleep. He reached for a mother who would kiss his tears and laugh at his frustration, whisper sweet things about him being the best boy in the world as he cooed innocently in the arms of the only person who could love him forever.

I’m not that mother.