The Mama Well

So, I wrote this post a few days ago and then didn't publish it. Because it seems like I've been writing a lot about the hard lately. And I don't want to ever give the impression that our journey is just hard all the time. Because it's not. But, as Glennon over at Momastery says life is beautiful and brutal at the same time, it's brutiful. (If you don't read Momastery, you should go take a look. Glennon is amazing.) So I'm posting this, because everyone has hard, every life is brutiful. Ours included. And I promise to write about the beautiful next time.

Some days it feels like there is not enough patience in the world, and all I want to do is completely lose my shit. And by that I mean have a Mommy Meltdown of epic proportions. Yelling, crying, flailing about, railing against the injustice of it all. I don't of course. Because I'm an adult, and a parent. And this is my life. But seriously, how much can one mama take?  Can the well of mama patience, and forbearance, and just plain endurance run dry?

As I said in my last post, fall is hard for us. That's all I want to say about it here. If you want more explanations, read The Change in Fall. 

So on top of the hard, last week The Boy brought home the first germs of the school year. He coughed and sniffled his way through a few days and then seemed to be getting better. But as any good child does, he shared those germs with me. And they hit me hard. Complete with sore throat, congestion, ear ache, head ache, chills. You know, the kind of thing that makes you want to just hide in bed for a few days to recover. But no, that is not the mama life.

On day number 2 of feeling like something the cat dragged in, The Boy came down with a stomach virus. And I sent the following text to my sis:

My day just went from super crappy to the Tenth Circle of Hell. 

What's up?

The Boy is vomiting

OMG, NO!!!!

Because she knows what this means.

The Boy does not tolerate vomiting, to put it mildly. Unusual bodily functions freak him out. I mean, stuff is not supposed to come up from your stomach and out your mouth and nose right? And it hurts, not to mention it's just plain gross. So when The Boy starts to vomit, he panics and his fight or flight response kicks in. As I'm sure you understand, we do not want him running through the house vomiting. So we participate in what we call Greco Roman Vomiting. (If you have a weak stomach, I suggest you stop reading now.)

I have to corral him, and drag him into the smallest bathroom in our house. Since he can't run, he fights me. I try to restrain him in this small, poorly ventilated space. All while he is getting sick. And it is going every where. For what feels like an eternity (but is probably 10 minutes) we wrestle in a space that is being covered in vomit. In the end, we are sitting (or laying if it's a particularly hard round) in puddles of vomit. It has covered the floor, the walls, the sink, the toilet, and us. Our clothes are soaked, hair dripping. The stench is horrific. It's all I can do to keep from vomiting myself. I cannot imagine that the Tenth Circle of Hell is any worse than this.

As I attempt to strip and shower my whimpering child who is clinging to me, Mr. Fix it goes about cleaning and bleaching the now offensive bathroom. 

After the third round (yes, three rounds of wrestling, showering, and bleaching) I did finally lose it in the shower. I was exhausted. Battered and bruised from wrestling a child who will quickly outgrow me, my head pounding with fever, my body giving out. On the floor of my shower, with the hot spray washing over me I cried. A big, ugly, snot filled cry. Some days it's just really damn hard.

Later that night as I lay on the floor in his bedroom reassuring him every time he stirred, there in the dark I wondered. What will we do in a few years when he towers over me, is stronger than me. When I can no longer contain him. How will we ever teach him to vomit in the toilet, or sink, or any contained vessel. I'll be 50 years old this year. Sleeping on the floor is no longer the fun slumber party of my youth. I'm old, I'm tired, and I'm sick. And I'm laying on the floor in the dark. How long can I continue to do this.

And that is when I realize it. That Mama Well? The one full of love and patience and understanding and determination? That one. It's infinite. It does not run dry. Ever. As long as I'm breathing I will do what it takes to help my child.