“He's hungry.”
I awake to my husband whispering over me. I'm groggy, but I push myself up in bed and grab the baby from him. Otto latches and I rub my eyes to see the time.
4:45 AM
Judd gets ready for the day. He tiptoes around our house, pulling on work boots and loading his cooler full of meals for the day. He's out the door before the sun rises; before our chickens make their way out of the coop.
My eyes are closed. I'm falling back asleep to the rhythmic hum, hum, gulp I can hear at my breast. Reality fades into dreamland. I'm trying to convince an ex-boyfriend that coconut oil will cure his acne.
I awake again to musical notes descending. The continuous glucose monitor tells me my oldest is going hypoglycemic. I break latch and slowly unwrap myself from Otto. I hold my breath, making sure he doesn't stir. We keep juice boxes on our nightstand now. I grab one before quietly wandering to Angus's room.
“I need you to drink.”
He doesn't open his eyes. His head stays heavy on his pillow, but his little lips part and I push the straw in. The juice is gone before I can count to ten.
I press coffee, pour, and drink. First sipping. Savoring. I watch the sun rise from our front porch. I drink faster with each square inch that is touched by sunlight. I know this time is fleeting.
One baby awakes. Then another. Diaper changes. Milk. Potty. I wake up Angus.
It's a school day. I remember thinking that these days would be a break for me, but they turn out to be more work than I could've imagined. The kids are not listening to my requests for help. Otto doesn't allow a feeding to go overdue. My anxiety rises and so does my voice. We are late and I begin to yell. It feels good to yell, but then instantly I feel sick. I hate myself. I'm a horrible mother.
9:17 AM
Anxiety bullies guilt out of the picture. I yell again. “Mama, are you high?” He's referring to my blood sugar. We ask him this whenever he's out of control or full of rage. I stare at him and break into a smile. Then I begin to laugh. “Yes, I'm feeling a little high.”
9:23 AM
Three kids are buckled into their seats. Otto is still crying. I pull down the visor and open the mirror. My skin sags around my eyes and I have new lines on my forehead. I can also see a lone white hair at my temple. I look older than my age. I feel older than my age. I'm embarrassed, so I quickly smear on lipstick and tuck my unwashed hair behind my ear.
Two hours pass and I'm back at school, picking up Angus. I sit him in the back of the car, dial the pen of insulin to “3” and push the needle into his skin. I forgot to prime it. It was a new vile of insulin and I forgot to prime it. Do I do it again? What if I overdose him? What if I don't give him enough? What do I do?
Otto is still crying.
I pick up Isla and she's the comic relief we all need. She always is. I always worry about her: whether or not she gets enough attention or if she'll grow up to hate me. I crave a good relationship with her, probably more than I do with my other two. I don't worry about the boys; I worry about my middle child. I project my relationship with my mother onto her. Will she appreciate me? Will she know that the mistakes I make are made on a foundation of love?
1:03 PM
Optimistically, I put all three down for a nap. Blood sugar is stable, bellies are full, and children are exhausted. I sneak back to my husband's workshop. He broods chicks out here, along with beer brewing and leather tooling. I open the fridge and pull out a beer. I'm barefoot when I shouldn't be. I slam the bottle cap between the workbench and my hand, cracking the cap off the top. I smile when I remember where I learned this: from an old has-been in the Alaskan bush. He was gruff and mean. He didn't like me. I'd watch him as he'd crack open beer after beer on the side of a fish gutting table.
I replay the morning as I sip my beer. I wonder if I'm right for these kids. I wonder if I'm right for this life. I don't feel deserving.
“Mama?”
Isla is standing in the door frame.
“Mama, will you come paint my toes?”
I put the beer down, along with my self-loathing, and walk inside to paint my two-year-olds toes.
Nap time washes clean the blunders of the morning. I will try again—always.
Read more stories by Maggie Jones on Mamalode!
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