Salon.com > Kristina Lakes

When the shrieking child is your son

Tue, 23 Aug 2011 01:01:00 +0000

I am the mother you shun at Walmart. Your disapproving eyes dart from my disheveled hair to my 4-year-old son. It's August, but he's dressed in a long-sleeved shirt and black-wool leggings. He also sports a cowboy holster and sheriff's badge. Any minute now, he'll start yelling and shrieking about the toy he wants to buy. You wonder what is wrong with him. You wonder what is wrong with me. I wish I could assure you that we'd be out of your way soon, but I have no idea how long this harried Walmart nightmare will last. All I know is that this will be our sole outing this week, and that I only brought him here out of sheer desperation. We are out of milk, and if my son does not have milk tonight in his special cup, he will have a horrible hour-long rage. He will hit me, crawl under the table, scream and throw things. His little sister will cry in fear. The dogs will cower behind the sofa. I will pour myself a big glass of chardonnay. When the rage, which may last anywhere from 15 minutes to three hours, finally passes, I will cuddle him, massage his shoulders, put him to bed and say, "I love you." Then I will go out to the living room and cry and drink some more.

The daughter we both wanted to keep

Wed, 10 Aug 2011 21:01:00 +0000

After every appointment at the fertility clinic, I would have a nightmare. It didn't matter if the appointment had gone well (New medicine to try! Your ovaries are huge!) or if the appointment had been torturous (Internal ultrasound! Ooops! The doctor was just called out to deliver a baby. You'll have to come back). The dreams that followed that night were never good.

I would toss and turn, trying all my tricks to get to sleep. I laid my hands flat, open, underneath my pillow. I smoothed my hair behind my ears, I bent my legs slightly, and I swept my foot back and forth, caressing the sheet. I stilled my breathing, then matched it to the motion of my foot. I willed myself to breathe deeper, to let go ...

- - - - - - - -

I wasn't surprised, but clearly everyone else was. I looked again at the bundle in my arms. I felt joyful and tender as I rearranged the tiny blanket around her. I cooed to her, my little sweetheart. She didn't stir, still exhausted from the delivery.

I said quietly to the room, "You could be happy for me."

The nurse said, "It's a kitten. You delivered a kitten."

"She's beautiful," I said. Then more firmly, "We're going to be fine."