Ill

My child is ill. I hate she has fever. If she had fever enough I’d give her some medicine and we’d get to sleep some.

I hate she’s connected to my boob to chew. I hate I can’t go brush my teeth and hang the laundry. I went to brush my teeth fifteen minutes ago and used the time to pick at my skin. I hate I’ve wasted the time.

I hate I’ll be a zombie tomorrow. I hate working sleepy. I hate I have this much work that I don’t do. I hate I’ll have to choose between work and staying home with her tomorrow. I hate myself for wishing the first option. I’m awful as a mother.

I hate that my children cling to me. Don’t they see I’m no good?

I hate hatred. I’m on the path to the dark side of the Force. No, I’m already there.

And so on.

…

I’ll go try to brush my teeth and stop complaining. I don’t have a choice of hatred. I only have the right to feel it sometimes. Awful. Still is. And I hate it.