H-E-Double Hockey Sticks and Back

Yesterday I was ready to throw in the proverbial towel, wash my hands, send in my resignation, hang up my spurs or hat or whatever it is you hang up when you are really done with something for good.

I thought about the time I broke my finger. No, not that time, the first time, in high school. And how it was mangled and I had to have surgery to have it pinned. My phobia of hospitals, blood, needles, nurses, squeaky shoes, and anesthesia (which I have completely overcome), all combined into this terribly traumatic and embarrassing episode at the hospital on the day of surgery.

I laid in the bed as preparations were made, and I was freaking out on the inside and the outside. For a moment, I actually considered jumping up from the bed and running out of the hospital. I was pretty sure I could outrun my nurse and both of my parents. But, I didn't have the car keys, which left me with only the option of running down the streets of Nashua. I thought I could make it to a phone and call a friend to pick me up.

Finally I conceded in my mind that I could not run away from this, because even if I escaped the hospital, my finger would still be broken. It would not heal well on it's own and the idea of sporting a twisted finger the rest of my life was not appealing.

Really and truly, I considered this as a viable possibility, even if only for a moment.

So I stayed. I cried during the entire pre-op, I had the surgery, gained an appreciation for anesthesia, and went home.

Now fast forward 11 years. I am in a completely different situation but pondered almost the same idea, even if only for a moment.


Some days, like yesterday, I just feel like I want to run away. I have wonderful children, but of course that doesn't mean that things are always wonderful. It was a really bad day that I should have seen coming based on the past few weeks.

The weight of the responsibility of raising well-adjusted, kind humans, is heavy on me. I do okay and I do terrible and on occasion I do well. I worry sometimes, that instead I will produce poorly adjusted humans traumatized by a crazy mother.

And in those moments, I think of running away, escaping, halting the damage I am doing to them and to myself. But then I always come back to the same spot-I could escape the hospital, but my finger would still be broken- I could run away from home but I'd still be their mother. And when they are as difficult as they were yesterday, I know that only their mother could love them.

Then the weight of this position of non-resignation feels even weightier. I heard our patriarch speak this past Sunday. He explained that his position is his for life. He will never be released. And that is motherhood as well. The kids may grow, circumstances may change, but I will always be their mother.



Last night, Ava started to complain about her tummy hurting. I thought it was from all the water she drank trying to show off her new gargling skills (that I was decidedly ignoring once she refused to honor my wish to "use good manners") The rest of the evening off and on she said, her tummy hurt.

Then about 10 pm, she threw up in her bed. And then 4 more times in the toilet. And then once more in the bowl we left by her bed.

Here was this little person, who had literally pushed me as far as I felt I could go, just hours before, inducing such empathy and love that I could hardly contain, as I cleaned her up, and changed her bedding, gave her medicine, and held her close. How is it possible to go to the edge and all the way back in less than one day?

I love my children. This is one tough job, at least for me, and I must assume for anyone who's actually trying to do a good job. It has brought me to my knees in every sense of those words. I fight feeling hugely inadequate on days like yesterday but I be will grateful forever that I will always be their mother.