Original writings by Adrienne Nater

Makings of a Monster


Her Ob/Gyn warned her, no more pregnancies. A third C-Section was too dangerous. She had to risk it, she must present a son into the family; she had failed to do so with his first child, he didnít look at their daughter for months. It was over two years; she assured herself that she was completely healed. The horizontal scar across her abdomen could be cut out would heal again.

So it was that she carried another child, had a third C-Section. God seemed to be good, it was a boy.

And it all started badly. The drops were placed in the newbornís eyes. His reaction was negative, a rash spread over his entire body, into every crevice from the top down. He was bathed in lotions from the get-go.

The surgery she was kept in the hospital for ten days, sent home with her fussing red glowing baby boy.

Every day she carried him out into the sun on the patio laid him on chaise lounge, stripped off his coverings, rubbed him down with baby oil. A month passed he was healed. Now he had to be circumcised, the swelling was gone.

He came home from this procedure in discomfort. Crying, crying, night and day for the next five days. The salves rubbed into his genitals soothed. With the slightest sound from him, he would be picked-up, held in a warm lap, fed, rocked. He healed.

The personal attention subsided. No warm massages, no out of schedule bottles, no rocking on demand, no warm lap.

He had an answer. Develop food allergies, asthma; turn blue from gagging; day and night. His world would be of his own making.

He had a mop of gorgeous curly hair that covered his head like a crown; a beautiful child; this outer beauty not to extend within.

Being potty trained, for him an objectionable exercise in the lessons of life. He taught himself to sit smile for extended lengths of time; the longer the better. He was the king on his throne, giving his gifts when and as he pleased. But this was not enough. There was more, lots more. Being seated on his throne was step one. Being in his crib presented an even bigger throne. This was his perfect place for truth and consequence; leave me alone you suffer. He would wait. Company would come over, he was cut off from attention; it was then that he became an artist in drawing in shades of brown. He painted on walls, on sheets, on railings of his crib, on his body, on his face, in his ears, up his nose, in his hair. He could not smell the painting matter, the clean-up crew of one could; his oldest sister.

But this was not enough. He wet his bed. This act demanded that father leave his bed; take him to the john, two times a night. It made no difference, the flood came. Withholding liquids, forget it. He could saturate a mattress in no time at all. Divide and conquer. Divide he did. What a coup.

Maturity accelerated his demands. Everything, anything wanted demanded he got. The emotional blackmail was well in place. The God given David was a Goliath albeit of small physical stature, but a Goliath nevertheless.

His lies were believed, his thefts, his cruelties excused. There was nothing that he did that wasnít excused. It may have been encouraged. Kindness was not part of his sensitivities.

He blamed his mother for his fatherís death. He blamed his father for dying. He was a get even guy. So were the self punishments. His three marriages failed. His son was now the Goliath, The payback is complete. He is alone, no mother, no father, rejected by his children, his siblings, a failure professionally, isolated.