the baby has little red spots
collecting around his eyes, cheeks,
forehead. burst blood vessels from
screaming as the ENT suctioned
the wax from his PE tubes; held
down with a type of toddler
straight jacket and by his mom,
so that he can endure the torture
without injury; without sedation.
just easier this way, they say.
in the car in the traffic on 35W,
going south, leaving Minneapolis,
baby falls to sleep with the outmost
exhaustion from the screaming,
perhaps the lack of trust in the one
person he wants to trust, organic
Annie's Bunny Grahams still in his
hand. the mother is crying now, as
she drives, tears flowing fast after a
night of not much sleep.
why, why, why should a mother
have to assist in such torture. she
knows how much this child, so
small, already objects to any sort
of confinement. even a blanket at
night is quickly kicked off, as an
unwelcome reminder, perhaps of
all pervious medical procedures.
he sleeps fitfully and sometimes
even suffers insomnia, if that is
what you call it when a seventeen
month old is wide awake in the
middle of the night, not crying,
not asking for anything . . . just
"no mother should have to" is a
theme these days for all of those
brave enough to stand up and love
with all of this fierceness; a lioness
protecting her young, the best she
can, encamped on a nest of wild grass,
looking warily after all intruders.
green eyes flashing.
do not bring these mothers roses,
or even a nice bouquet of daisies and
carnations, baby's breath sprinkled in.
No, bring these mothers bold-colored
tulips for they are brave and courageous
and strong. they give out care and this
wondrous mother's love with abandon,
letting any thoughts of self-recreation slip
to the wayside as they watch over their
children, growing up.