The Boople

Warning for some of my blog friends: This post includes issues regarding parenting my living children while grieving for E.

I also need to preface this post by saying that I feel guilty. I feel guilty complaining about my children. I feel guilty that I cannot practice more patience. I feel guilty that E is gone, yet I cannot simply feel grateful for my living children.

Aaaaccckkk. I lost it. Again. Where to start? I'll summarize the events of the day, leading up to the huge crescendo. I stayed home with sick little N this morning while my husband took L and O to mass. Shortly after they left, N started throwing a fit because "I want go mass!!!!" Never mind the fever, the snot, or the barking cough. So, I attempted a compromise. I told her Daddy would come back and we'd all go to lunch. This seemed to go well, until I tried dressing her. Another fit.

When they returned from mass, I left naked N with my husband. I took L and O downtown, hoping to go to the library. Closed. In an attempt to kill time while waiting for the library to open, we decided to sit in Starbucks. Coffee. Vanilla Milk. Starbucks - closed. By this time, O just wanted to go up and down elevators and dirty stairwells downtown. I said no. O had a fit.

By the grace of god, Cinderella was playing at the Community Theater downtown today. We were able to get last minute tickets. O.K., not last minute. Last half of the day. We still had at least an hour and a half to kill. I figured we'd have lunch. O thought that plan was a buzz kill and we should see the play NOW. O had a fit. We still went to lunch. O had a fit.

The play went O.K. No out of control fits. Until, I said we were going home after the play. O had a fit.

We got home. N needed her "boople" immediately (I still nurse N. She calls it her "boople."). N cannot nap without her boople. Thus, I'm pinned to the bed for a couple hours every day. That part isn't so bad. But, the twisting, pinching, piercing with little fingernails, and overall abuse of the boople is sometimes unbearable. It really is a cycle of abuse. She hurts the boople. I yelp. She says, "Sorry boople." I'm lulled into false security by her promises that she won't ever hurt the boople again. And again. And again. And again.

The boople and its attached body need a break. If the boople is not receiving abuse, the rest of my body suffers from my sweet little two-year-old's constant physical demands. She jumps on me. She hangs on my leg while I try to walk, or do the laundry, or put away dishes, or sit on the toilet. Inevitably, one or both of us endures injury. It's difficult to open a dishwasher without hitting N's head while N is attached to my leg. One or both of us ends up crying or throwing a fit. This sort of scenario makes up a typical day. You can only imagine the boople abuse when N is sick. Like today.

After dinner, I asked my husband to change N's diaper so I could simply brush my teeth and wash my face. Whilst water rushed from the faucet and I scrubbed my face, I heard my husband yelling. With soap still lathered on my face, I turned off the faucet and found my husband chasing the dog and pulling a poopy diaper from dog's mouth. My husband wasn't yelling at the dog. He was yelling at me. For just "standing there."

I lost it. The boople, the body, the mind all had enough for one day. I screamed about not getting a break. Not being able to move freely in the universe. I launched the garbage across the kitchen. I slammed a few doors. I completely freaked out.

Really, other than boople abuse, I don't know precisely what brought on this loss of control. Even all the annoyances didn't really warrant that big of a reaction. I suppose it's grief related. I told my husband it bothers me that it seems I am the honorary torch bearer for E's life. I feel I am the one saying her name out loud. Finding ways to incorporate her into our family, so people know she existed. That she exists. In my heart, my mind, my soul. Yet, I do not think these fits of rage honor E. Why can't grief be peaceful?

P.S. The boople suffered excruciating torture throughout this post's production. The boople still suffers.