To Whom It May Concern:
First off, let me just say that I am overall extremely pleased with the baby I received on Nov. 12, 2004. I enjoy slobbering kisses on her so much that I may be training her for her first Junior High School Boyfriend, I love watching her sleep with her mouth kind of open and her blanket wrapped around her head so tight like a turban so that I feel I must move it in case she can’t breathe. I enjoy listening to her laugh most of all especially when I threaten (and, it’s no empty threat) to eat her tummy for lunch. I can’t get enough of her smiles, her curiousity, her constant question “wassthis?” to any object she doesn’t know the name of. I love that she makes me drive her all around the neighborhood to look at Christmas lights.
I love being her mother. The person who will shape the way she knows love forever.
But…yesterday, I didn’t like her. At all. Please excuse me if I start crying because I’ve had very very little sleep. But we (my husband (and for the record I don’t like it when people refer to their husband’s online as DH -it’s just irritating), newly turned 2-year-old and I) were flying home from Connecticut where were visiting the in-laws. Taking a child out of state is hard enough. Dealing with a borrowed Pack & Play which seemed way more in the play catagory since she busted out of it every single night, wandered around the house breaking small expensive objects, like she was browsing at Tiffanys. But I worked though that with drinking and daily Holly Hunteresque crying spells everyday. We got through it just fine. It’s the going home part that was the real motherfucker.
More specifically the second leg of the airplane ride home that has done permanent damage to my relationship with her, my husband and every passenger on that plane. Granted, I’m still on very very little sleep but…it may have been the worst night of my life. My daughter had, naturally woken up that morning at 4 a.m. because it seemed like the right thing to do on a the day we were FLYING HOME. She refused a nap so by the late evening she had worked herself into a state only seen in in a certain movies starring Linda Blair. I am truly not exaggerating when I tell you that she screamed and screamed and screamed for hours. I’ve truly never heard of a baby being able to keep up a crying fit for that long. We tried everything. The flight attendants tried everything. I literally cried and cried myself and wished I could jump out of the plane. No parachute would’ve been fine.
She writhed in agony like she was having convulsions, threw sippy cups at passengers heads, swatted my much needed coffee in my lap (on purpose), and continued to scream relentlessly until about 45 minutes before we landed. She was possessed and I’m not sure I will ever be able to fly with her again. I felt like the worst mother on the planet. Like I must be wearing a sign that says “that mother cannot comfort her poor, obviously in pain or severely traumatized daughter.” At one point I completely gave up and read Entertainment Weekly while she wailed.
To top it all off, I’ve been doing nothing but crying since we came home last night at 2 a.m. I, honestly feel as bad as when I had postpartum depression. And I don’t like her. I don’t. And I know that’s so fucking wrong and fucked up. I know it’s not her fault. I know she was stressed. But, she won’t come near me, she’s not her usual self at all and I just guess I thought two-years-old would still feel so innocent that how could I possibly be mad. What’s wrong with me?