Helpless

I feel helpless when I think about AIDS orphans on Africa. I feel helpless when I think about the fact that every year 15 million children die of hunger related complications. I feel helpless when I think about the US unemployment rate, and when I see homeless people living underneath an overpass in Chicago, and when someone I love is seriously ill with an incurable disease. I feel helpless about a lot of things, knowing that they are problems so large that I probably won't see most of them solved in my lifetime. But nothing, absolutely nothing, compares to how helpless I feel about my son's teething.

I have rubbed his gums with baby Orajel and a lovely vanilla flavored brandy. I have chilled teething rings, washcloths, and my finger. I have given him Tylenol, I have rocked him for hours, and I have comfort-nursed so many times I think my arms are permanently stuck in cross-cradle hold.

And still, he cries.

He drools, and chokes, and gags. He throws up. His gums bleed and his little mouth smells like iron. He flails in my arms, and he squirms like he's on fire when I lay him down. He weeps, and screams, and looks at me with those wide blue eyes, wondering why I can't fix it.

It breaks my heart. It is the worst thing that has ever happened in my whole life. It is agony for me, and I cannot imagine what it is for him. I feel like a failure, like a horrible mother. I cannot ease my son's pain, not really. I cannot make him feel better. I can only hold him, giving him the meager comforts I have to offer, and wait through it with him.

I hate this.