pride and screaming

Standard

I stand in the hallway

screaming from my roots –

one long screech from the four corners of my feet, from my pelvic floor, from the tips of my fingers.

 

My two-month-old sleeps

in her bouncey chair not five feet from where I stand.

My 23-month-old kicks and scream-cries behind her closed door on my right.

My 6-year-old plays in his room on my left.

And my husband leaves work

to drive to the city where he stands at his mother’s hospital bed.

 

There is nothing pretty here.

My breasts leak milk

and my post-partum belly hangs

deflated over my waistband.

I call my mom;

I pack diapers, wipes,

bottles, formula,

breast pump, nursing pads,

clothes, toys, a sippy cup,

and buckle the kids in their seats.

 

We drive two hours north east

and meet my parents at my sister’s house

where everyone takes care of my babies

and I sleep.

 

Screaming cracks the bricks of  my independent facade

and I ask for help.

 

Help is beautiful.

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