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
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
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
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,