I’m tired of the bite-mark tattoos I have all over my arms and neck.
I’m tired of her public tantrums and freak-outs and screaming and crying and people staring.
I’m tired of her refusal to walk, to help, to tell me what’s wrong.
I’m tired of her trying to pull my hair out of my head.
I’m tired of my biceps and back aching and the end of each and every day.
I’m tired of her wanting to do nothing but be in her room and watch T.V. because that’s her comfort zone.
I’m tired of changing shitty diapers.
I’m tired of her pinching my nipples through my shirt so hard my eyes water. In front of her baseball team.
I’m tired of her telling me to shut up.
I’m tired of her acting helpless and disabled.
I’m tired of her hitting babies and other small children.
I’m tired of not being able to turn my back for 2 seconds.
I’m tired of her having Cri du Chat.
And then I remember she’s probably tired too.
Tired of others not understanding what she wants.
Tired of not being able to be as physically strong as she needs to be.
Tired of feeling like she’s different.
Tired of having the transition to summer feel like a thorn in her foot.
She’s tired too. More tired than me. More deserving of sympathy and understanding than me.
I look at her and through my tears I say “I’m so sorry baby. I’m so sorry things are so hard for you. If I could take it all away, I would.”
She laughs because she thinks it’s so funny when I cry.
Through her laughing smile she says “I love you Momma.”
“I love you more” I say
“Well I love you the most” she says.
And all is right with the world again and I’m not so tired…and neither is she.