sick. lovesick.

Sometimes I get sick of the whole damn thing. It all feels so ludicrous and pathetic while at the same time heart wrenching, tragic and miserable. I am sick of the seizures and the medicine. I get sick of Calvin’s idiosyncrasies; the incessant eye poking and staring at the sun, the relentless yanking off of his glasses, the wretched screaming, the constant drooling. I get sick of him throwing everything on the ground as soon as we give it to him. I get sick of changing diapers. I get sick of his poor balance, of his inability to truly explore his world. I get sick of him trying to bite everything: tables, chairs, magazines, windowsills and windows, the freezer, his shoes, the car, the sink, the water faucet, the hamper, the radiator, the wastebasket, his books and toys, the zipper on his coat, the shutters, the dishwasher, his glasses, his crib. Sick, sick, sick of it all.

And though Michael has helped me begin to understand that I may have some sort of superhuman patience, and the ability to maintain calm vigilance over these things, at times I get so sick of it I just have to scream—not at anyone but at the whole sorry situation. And if Calvin is present he usually starts to giggle, and at that I can do nothing but melt. In an instant all of my feelings of anger, self-pity, annoyance and tension dissolve into doting tenderness and love. For all of his peculiarities and quirks Calvin is a darling. He’s pure through and through, lovely and affectionate. There isn't a cruel or malevolent bone in his body; rather he strives to do his best to please in most any circumstance. I couldn’t ask for a finer son to show me how I can be a better person.