Cry Baby

This morning, I cannot stop crying.

The thing that is especially crappy, for my husband, is that Sunday is his day "off." Especially during football season. Sunday I am to make myself scarce (and take Mama with me). Sunday he watches TV and calls his friends and checks his computer every two minutes and does not shower.

Ah, male bliss.

Except I am a weepy, clingy mess. I don't quite know my. (Perhaps it is because the Jets are losing?)

Ugh.

H blames the C.etr0tid.e; last night was the first night we added C.etr0tid.e to the mix. What else could it be, he says?

Mama's grasp on reality is slowly but surely ebbing away. This morning Mama told me that she didn't give birth to my husband. (She did). Mama told me that my husband's father had gotten another woman pregnant, and she agreed to raise the child as her own. I've seen my husband's birth certificate, I've seen photos of Mama in the hospital. She gave birth to my husband, no question about it. In fact, it used to be her strongest memory. (She did NOT like labor, let me tell you). And now, in her mind, it's in question.

Crap.

When the mood strikes her, Mama will strike a dramatic pose and intone, "I am a waste. I can do nothing. I should die and leave you alone..." followed by a fluttering of hands. (I'd compare it to a six-year-old trying to emotionally blackmail you. The sentiment is there, but the execution is clumsy). Depending on the context, it will either make me laugh or cry. For instance, when she's trying to get out of chores, it's funny. When she's attempting to do something (sew, crochet, cook) and she can't... it kills me.

Years ago, when we just engaged and blissfully ignorant about IF, my husband would say in response that we needed her. Who would take care of the baby?

Mama would always get excited about the baby, or the hope of one. The baby could sleep in her room, she'd say. The baby should be named after her father. The first child should be a male child, with hair like my husband and eyes like my brother (she loves those blue eyes). For a while, Mama was even passionately praying that I would have triplets, or at least twins. Mama would explain that that way she could "get one." (That I'd have so many, I would let her raise one).

We live in one of those classic New York City apartment buildings that families settle in. So 2F is the cousin of 4K and the grandson of 7L. That kind of thing. And the old ladies of the building congregate with their grandchildren. And Mama sees them, most every day. And Mama wants to be one of them.

And recently, she's given up hope.

Yesterday, when she awoke, we were not there. Later, when we returned, she demanded to know where we'd been.

"At the doctor," I explained, "trying to make a baby." But it's a story she's heard too many times before.

Mama made a dismissive gesture with her hand, and blew a raspberry. "I don't believe you," she said, "You never make a baby."

And then she walked away.

And today, I cannot stop crying.