rough thoughts; rough sketch

he sleeps in my arms now. as beautiful, as peaceful as an angel.
but the last thing he said before he fell asleep?
he looked into my eyes.
he snarled, “i hate you.”
my four year old hates me.
he wishes i was dead.
maybe he doesn’t mean it…probably he doesn’t mean it.
but how could i blame him if he did? after all,
i spent 42 weeks hating him.
i spent 42 weeks wishing he was dead.
what kind of mother am i? not the mother he deserves.
“i hate me too,” i assure him. “i hate me too.”

my fourth child. my quixotic child. he was the only one i didn’t plan. the only one i didn’t hope & wish for. and every day since he was conceived has been a struggle for me. i love him. i truly do, & i wouldn’t trade him for the world. he is an amazing little person…but every day is a struggle. and i wonder what my struggle has done to him.

if you are interested, here is a creative non-fiction piece  i wrote about my pregnancy with him.

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