"Coming Undone" - Korn

Yesterday was rough. R O U G H. I cannot convey the tax I feel I have paid with my body, mind, and soul over these last few weeks.

Illness galore. Can't swing a fuckin' cat in here without contracting another daycare disease. Last week's was respiratory, lots of snot, coughing, and fevers. It sucked. This week's has been vomit. Just when I thought it couldn't get grosser, it quite literally did.

I went to get LJ out of bed yesterday. He was fine through the night, or so I thought. I walk in and I am confronted by a familiar and triggering smell: vomit. He's sleeping peacefully. How children sleep peacefully when they've expelled the contents of their stomach, I will never know. He was actually mad at me for waking him up. Bud, you're covered in yesterday's dinner. I can't unsee what I've seen. I have to deal with it.

I get him out of bed and start trying to sell him on the idea of changing his clothes. It was much like selling a root canal to someone with perfectly fine teeth. His unwavering response was a big 'fuck no' but different words, for he has not mastered his use of the F word.

I finally convince him we'll feel better in clean clothes. Cool. I get him changed, get him downstairs.

Let's back up a minute, though. My order of operations is normally to get RB up first. He likes to turn the TV on and wake up on the couch. Most days he plays ball, but sometimes he wakes up as obstinate as one can be. Yesterday was one of those days. First thing he did was scream-squeal at me to get out of his room. Uh, good morning to you too, Mr Butthole. It's so hard in those moments. Like it's fucking 7:30 in the morning, I am waking you up so I can tend to your every need, and you are yelling at me? Where do you get the audacity? I'd like to know. Genuinely. I'd like some for myself. I'd love to walk through this world so confident in my unnecessary anger. But alas, I have evolved to a point where I can see anger, mine or others', comes from a place of hurt, so I cannot wield my rage without guilt and the all-consuming knowledge that I am making things worse. RB is unencumbered by these concerns, and he is lying in bed, on God's beautiful Wednesday morning, screaming at me to get out of his room.

You know those people who say be gentle, be gentle all the time with your kids, for they act and do not know the consequences of their decisions? You know, those people. Those people who are out here, having quiet toned conversations with their children, and they're claiming their children hear them, their children cooperate, their children take a deep breath and say, "oh gosh, you are right, Parent, I am being unruly, please forgive my transgressions." Those people can fuck right off.

I don't mean that. I'm happy for those people. I am green with envy at the idea there are people walking a paved path while mine seems to be littered with sharp obstacles at every turn.

Now, should those people turn around and give me the advice they give themselves - then yes, they can fuck right off. Gentle parenting is for gentle children. We do not have those here.

I am not disparaging my kids. I am not sad that our children are not gentle. Ultimately, they have not been born unto a gentle world. One day, the strength they wield against me, they will wield against forces fighting them. On that day, their strength will be a blessing to all that know them. Yesterday, their strength was a leech attached to my very soul, sucking out every morsel of patience, kindness, and understanding right out of me, one bite at a fucking time.

Back to where we were. I'm in LJ's room. I've been yelled at by RB for asking to be his personal concierge. I've finally convinced Thing #2 to change out of his vomit clothes. We go downstairs. As we descend, I am acutely aware I have not witnessed the expulsion that has sullied his PJ's from the night before. Is it a one-time cleaning, or will it be a repeat experience?

My question was answered as soon as my feet left the last step.

Vomit. Everywhere. Me, him, the floor, his hair, my hair. Actually quite impressive in hindsight. His body was empty, and yet, it produced.

It continued to produce every 45 minutes for the next 5 hours. It took me probably two rounds of projectiles to realize this bug was going to be an uninvited guest in our home, and we might as well all get comfortable. I got a big, metal bowl. One we normally use for popcorn. We are now a family with a multifunctional metal bowl. Love that for us.

In order to make it to school on time, we must - and I mean must - be wheels down and in reverse in the driveway by 8:42AM. At 8:30, I find myself changing my clothes for the second time and thinking about RB. He had not vomited. The only sign of illness in him was his ever-festering attitude. Was he sick? No. Did he go to school? No. I had to weigh the consequences of the choices laid in front of me. I could get RB dressed, out the door, and he could go to school with that attitude and ruin the day of every kid in his class, or he could stay home, watch his brother vomit, and essentially enjoy a mental health day with a background soundtrack of dry heaving. I chose the latter. I felt defeated already; I threw my hands up and said fuck it, we're staying home today. In hindsight, I should've yeeted that four-year-old out right out the door and right into daycare. His attitude absolutely, positively sucked all damn day.

I have a standing call at work every day at 9:30. I took that call from the couch. I multitasked; I held our now multifaceted bowl while LJ heaved, and I listened to my boss give his daily updates. At some point, I turned my camera on, and there I sat, dimly lit, with a toddler in his diaper as we'd finally given up on clothes, Paw Patrol playing in the background, vomit bucket on the bar above my head, and I gave my updates. I communicated my plan for the day, gripping too tightly to the idea that I still had influence over the way my day was going to go.

I leave the call around 10. Everyone is angry. Angry at? That I can't answer.

LJ was angry at his belly, and I guess that he could not climb back into my uterus, as he could not get close enough to my body. He was angry that I needed to get up and change. He was angry that I would not let him eat all the popsicles in the world - which was bullshit because I was VERY pro-popsicle yesterday, but only the Pedialyte ones, and he wanted the ones filled with sugar. He screeched, "no healthy popsicle, Mama!!!" I breathed deeply. It did not help. Or maybe it did, and maybe I would have actually lost my mind without those breaths.

RB was angry. Angry that he, too, could not eat the unhealthy popsicles. Angry he couldn't go outside and play, even though I had made it very clear that if he stayed home, we would not be having a fun day. We would be having a day of rest and drinking fluids. He was angry that I existed, and angry that I wasn't existing closer to him.

I was angry. Angry at the noise, angry that everyone needed every part of me, and there were no parts left for myself. Angry that somehow I encompassed the whole room and yet there was no room for me to simply exist. Angry I couldn't work, angry that I was falling behind, knowing that all I didn't accomplish would be stacked on what I needed to accomplish in the days that followed.

LJ then vomited and it hit the carpet. That was it for me. You know those moments where your brain just kind of snaps and says "This is it. This is when it happens." That was it for me. I jump off the couch, and I say something like "You know what? We're going to turn off the TV. We're going to clean the living room and listen to music. We're going to dance a little and I am going to remove the smell of vomit from the carpet at a minimum."

We get to it. I sweep. Everyone else wants to sweep. I give them both a broom. LJ is suddenly no longer happy with sweeping. He wants to vacuum. Well, get the fuck after it, Bud. He gets the vacuum. RB and I continue sweeping. Spoiler: some of us in this house are more effective at cleaning than others. We eventually get through it. I take the carpet and throw it in the washer, and I also take the now-washed but previously soiled bedding from LJ's bed and put it in the dryer. I dare to let the thought that I maybe will be able to get through this day smoothly cross my mind. Fucking amateur. I never learn.

We get through the cleaning. The living room no longer reeks of vomit, and I take another deep breath, only to realize I reek of vomit. That realization is interrupted by - you guessed it - more vomit. LJ has figured out the Vomit Bowl. Lunch time is upon us. LJ has no appetite, but I need some kind of calories in him. The internet says BRAT diet. I tried, Lord, I swear, but that wasn't happening. So I am left to figure out what I can convince this kid to put down his sweet gullet. RB is not sick, remember, and he is bitching about what he wants for lunch. I have no energy to cook. I order Sonic. Sue me. I get the boys Powerade slushies. LJ nibbles on some fries. RB absolutely annihilates the hotdog and cheeseburger he wanted.

We survive lunch. It is now time for a nap. I had originally planned to work while everyone slept. Let me reiterate: fucking amateur. I give up on that idea pretty quickly. We are settled on the couch, a movie is playing, LJ has dozed off, RB has the wiggles. He is too excited down in the living room. He is yawning, and he is playing. If you have ever been around a tiny human, then you are likely aware that is a toxic combination. I come to realize we are barreling our way toward further disaster.

LJ wakes up. He is unhappy to be awake, and yet, he fights sleep. I now have two 40lb, human shaped grenades sitting next to me on the couch, pins pulled, ready to explode. I, too, am a grenade, ready to pop. We need a change of scenery. And we need a fucking nap. Every. Single. One. Of. Us.

I decide we are going upstairs to the guest room. There is a TV, and there is a bed. What I failed to realize is there are windows with blinds, with no curtains. The room is bright. Too bright. The boys are bitchy. I am bitchy. After many, many, many threats, most of them sounding like "Mommy needs a nap, or Mommy is going to lose my shit," the room finally settles. We fall asleep around 2:30. We wake up at 4:40. I am feeling better - not good, but better. LJ has not expelled his innards since sometime around 2. Things are looking up.

We go downstairs. I have made dinner in the crockpot. "I don't want to eat that!!!!" screams RB. I am losing the plot. I am losing my mind. "Starve or eat, I do not care." He chooses starve, with an extra sprinkle of bellyaching. Not the kind his brother had. No, no - just straight bitching. "Can I have a snack?" No. "I want a snack." NO. "I WANT A SNACK!" I don't give a shit, Bud. I do not care. You can eat the dinner in front of you. If you even go near the pantry, I swear I will use the white-hot rage bubbling inside me, I will rip it off the wall, and I will throw it in the fucking street.

No one eats. I have to take a minute to get my shit together. I go to our room, I read for a moment, I cry for a moment, I take a deep breath, I wipe my face, I return to what feels like the seventh layer of Hell. Despite the minutes that have passed, no one has touched their dinner, and they are both immediately screaming at me for a snack. FUCK IT. You need calories. You can have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. "I only want a jelly sandwich!!!" OKAY. HERE IS YOUR JELLY SANDWICH, YOU FUCKING WEIRDO.

They nibble on the sandwiches they so desperately needed. I read my book, but I really daydream about putting my head through the drywall. It would be more comfortable than whatever the fuck this is.

Popsicles re-enter the chat. I WANT A POPSICLE. NOT THAT ONE. A DIFFERENT ONE. I say "FUCK POPSICLES" with my whole chest. Yeah, I curse at my kids. Do I feel good about it? I absolutely do fucking not. Thanks for asking. I will be very mean to myself about it for days to come. I don't need your judgement atop mine. You can't hurt me like I can.

We eventually get upstairs to bath time. Another shitshow, just on a different floor of the house. I get LJ out first, as he is absolutely devastated I have scrubbed him head to toe. I am a monster for washing off the day. The vomit filled day. I get it though, as I already felt like a monster. What kind of monster? I don't know, let's go ogre. I am green. I am angry. I am losing my fucking cool the second I feel it's within my reach. I am fucking done.

LJ lies down. By that, I mean he screams in his bed. I cannot hug him enough. I cannot kiss him enough. I cannot calm him down. I cannot calm myself down. We must separate, or I am going to spontaneously combust.

I leave the room. He continues to protest, the opposite of peaceful. Violence. I go back in. He calms down. I leave. He starts again. I am remembering all those articles I read online that say it's okay if kids cry. They won't die from it. You can let them cry if you need a minute. I need more than a fucking minute. I need an hour. I need a day. I need a fucking week.

I leave LJ to cry. He eventually falls asleep. I get RB out of the bathtub. He is pissed he has to get out. Get the fuck over it. I don't say that, but I'm sure it was etched on my face. I get him dressed. He feels better, silly, goofy, trying to lighten the mood. He's not strong enough to lift that boulder.

We start to read. My stomach starts to cramp. Painful. I excuse myself to the bathroom. I am the next victim of a stomach bug. I do what I must, I go back into RB's room. I finish the story. He wants another. I can't do another. I genuinely cannot. I explain this. He does not give a flying fuck. He is back to pissed. He's been listening to stories lately when falling asleep. He cannot decide what story. I am frustrated. Pick a fucking story. I am going to be physically ill. I may be mentally fucking ill. Pick. A. Fucking. Story. Finally, he chooses.

I go downstairs. I proceed to be very sick. He starts screaming at me he doesn't like the story. I ascend the stairs. I am pissed. I cannot stand this back and forth shit. I am going to take the Alexa in his room and throw it in the damn street. He sees in my eyes I mean it. He chooses another story.

We rinse and repeat until 10:12PM. This is the moment when I finally lose whatever is left of my cool. You do not scream at me. I am not to be fucked with right now. I am about to lose my fucking mind, and you are standing in my way. Shut your beautiful fucking face, my son, and go the fuck to sleep. I say the latter out loud, the former in my head. He tells me he is very unhappy with me right now. It's fine to be unhappy, I say, you will survive. He continues to voice his displeasure. I descend the stairs. He tries, once again, to light this candle moments after I lay on the couch. My throat is tight. My body wants to cry. My brain won't let it. I tell him for the final time to go to bed, and if I hear another sound out of him, there will be consequences, and he will not like them. He seems to hear that message. He shuts his beautiful fucking face. He falls asleep.

I disassociate on the couch. We go to bed. I wake up to a new day. No vomit. Much less attitude. Some, sure, but not like yesterday. We make it to daycare by the skin of our fucking teeth.

I sit and write it all out to get it the fuck out of my head.

Did I fail yesterday? Not technically. We all survived. Did I win yesterday? Not technically, as I was Captain Asshole in front of an army of assholes.

Whatever. What the fuck ever.

Fuck yesterday.

I'm glad it's over. I'm glad yesterday, in all its uniqueness, cannot be repeated.

I am glad I will never see October 7, 2026 ever again.

After our nap. A fleeting moment of peace.