My toddler is screaming, so it must be Tuesday. His face is scrunched, anger etching hard lines onto his normally round face. His complexion flushes red as he hisses out a frustrated, “No,” through clenched teeth. 

It isn’t a refusal to acquiesce to my request. Quite the opposite: his is a refusal to accept my refusal. 

Except, I haven’t said, “No.” What I said was, “Not right now.”

If you clicked on this expecting a feel-good piece about God’s graces overflowing, I apologize for the story you’re about to hear. This story is about as unspiritual as it gets. This is a story about a toilet. 

It’s quiet in the dark, except for the screaming. I hold my one-year-old, skin hot from fever, as he writhes against me. “No, no” he cries, little hands trying to force me away. He wants neither down nor up. I’m used to being the touch that soothes - a useless gift when everything hurts.

I laugh as the line turns pink. Earlier this week, I told my husband that although we had been trying to conceive our second child for a few months, just one week of juggling night school, full-time teaching, and taking care of our 2-year-old daughter had made me reconsider.

When I open the door and see my mother-in-law standing there, something inside cracks and tears escape down my face. I’m not dressed. Toys and bits of food litter the floor.

The heat is creeping towards 100 degrees today, so ice cream sounds like a good idea.

It could have been a good idea if my toddler had gotten her nap.

“Watch me, Mommy!”

This is the single line of the chorus I hear all day long. Whatever task I am occupied by matters little to my daughter who burns to show me her latest accomplishment.

“I hate you. I hate you!” my daughter screams from behind her door. Her words cut me, but this is hardly the first tantrum that we’ve weathered. I stand outside, deaf to the sound of kicks and screams. They used to break me inside; familiarity has numbed their sting.

"Book!" says my toddler as he hobbles along, dragging a board book behind him. I take it from him and gather him onto what's left of my lap, shrinking away as the new baby grows within it.

It’s December 27th and the house is as quiet as the snow that silently blankets everything outside of our windows in the predawn blackness. The only light in the room glows from our Christmas village where it sits merrily on the mantle, high above greedy fingers whose enthusiasm threatens to crack its delightfully delicate rendition of an idyllic Christmas. The sight the villagers look down upon, however, is another story.

I can’t visit her. I’m taking care of two kids and I’m pregnant. It’s too far, I brush the thought away, and she probably wouldn’t want the company anyway.

But you did.

My voice comes out in a low hiss, dripping with venom. My daughter’s defiant stare is a dagger that pierces my heart. The somber tones of the “Sanctus” beckon us to prayer, but I am paralyzed. I’m done.

Do I love you enough to let you suffer? This road you walk is a painful one. Each of your wounds I feel in my own body. How, why, Lord, does it have to be this way?

What did you feel when you saw him standing there, finally found? The rise of anger? The wash of relief? Was it then, in that moment, when you knew he was not yours to keep?

My first birth tore me open. For a month, I could barely shift positions, let alone walk and care competently for our colicky newborn. I was still taking heavy painkillers to dull the pain, and the weight of failure hung around me.

My toddler loves dandelions. He wanders to them, one after the next, gathering their wispy heads close to his lips. Sometimes the seeds stick to his wet lips as he tries to scatter them with his breath, to blow and spread their wild beauty on the breeze.

My daughter’s skin is all patches of pink. It cracks from dryness, little rivers of red flowing where her fingernails have etched tiny scratches. I feel the pain of her eczema in my own body.

I didn’t love the way I looked in a bikini before I had children. I fretted over perceived imperfections, poured time and money into fixing them. I drank green juices…

My daughter’s body is curled on my chest, hot with fever. She is 18 months old, just discovering the joy of running everywhere, but this week her little legs lay still. She opens her eyes some, vaguely aware that Dory is getting lost for the 18th time on the blue of the television screen.

Can a baby be addicted to nursing?

I wonder. My daughter, my first child, is a few weeks old and gaining weight steadily. And it’s no wonder: she eats, she sleeps, and she cries.

We are scheduled for an 11 pm induction.

The house is dark and quiet, and somehow feels more hollow with my daughter sleeping at her grandmother’s instead of her little bed. My belly aches

There will be no nap today.

The realization hangs heavy around my chest as I watch my plans evaporate. Some days, I’m ready to embrace the opportunity.