The Game

The Game


So, this was how it was going to be? My God, I don’t even have the strength. Ten hours and 22 minutes of bodily pain, three different labour positions, and an earthquake in my head represent nothing compared to the stubborn, controlling onslaught of a lifetime of interactions with my mother-in-law.

Visitors have been infrequent, my only interaction with the soldier-like infantry that checks in on me from time to time. Peach colored walls stare back at me and I am vaguely aware of my unkempt hair. Who knew a hospital bed would feel more like a wood plank? I think to myself as I restrain my mind from relaxing, wondering when she will storm in. My fidgets are more like spasms, uncontrollable as a train of negative scenarios runs through my head.

A Tsunami-like presence comes pushing through the door, bringing with her a February chill I would rather not meet.

“Oh, he’s so cute. Little birdie,” she coos.

My eyes roll like dice at the comment. Almost two days of helplessness, held hostage by pain, and her latest intrusion makes me want to binge on tears. My body reflexes into tension. Her large stature overwhelms the 14 x 8 room.

Defenses stand alert!

Negativity is quickly unleashed from her gob: “Is he getting enough milk?”

“Yes” I monotonous reply.

Like a boomerang, she unleashes “Are you sure?”

“Colostrum only appears during the first couple of days, and yes it’s enough.”

But oh no, my answer does not pacify her as she shrugs me off.

So, already I am starving my child.

I can do nothing but lay in bed and watch, helpless, a novice in her eyes.

Peace and quiet give in to my son’s mouse-like squeals and faster than an Olympic sprinter, she races over to pick him up. Instead of a dummy, she tries to serve as the real thing, trying to placate my son with her words. It doesn’t work and I internally smile. However, my brief enjoyment deflates as quickly as it came.

“Where is it? she says, all Lieutenant-like, flustered that my son doesn’t relax in her arms, her eyes piercing with concern.

A new world and already somebody wants to plug my son’s mouth.

My mouth contorts in preparation for a comeback – sarcasm my specialty. Leave him alone! I scream inside; the decision is not yours!

The bland tray in front of me further restricts my movements and I extend my arm, robot-like, wanting to replace the bile in my throat with something less acidic. I revel in the blood-red cranberry juice as it slithers down my throat.

A sparring of words ensues.

“There is nothing wrong with it. It won’t hurt,” she retorts, assuming decisive control over my dislike to plant a pacifier in my son’s mouth. My husband relents to the tyrant’s invasion, his backbone losing some of its strength.

“That is not the point” I counterbalance behind clenched teeth, trying to nudge my husband to come over to my side of the fence, needing his reassurance; this is war, after all.

Lava-like rage boils inside. Who does she think she is? Even my own mum, who flew over from England especially for this event, is absent, swept aside by the controlling presence - unwilling to contend with her and all in the name of peace.

The time has come…