That you used to know.
Sigh.
Being a mom is challenging. HA! That’s like saying Chernobyl was just a little meltdown. Being a mom is like juggling lit sticks of dynamite that are stuffed in blocks of C4 with canisters nitroglycerin taped on for good measure. One false move, one odd step, and things blow up.
That’s how I feel tonight. Double sigh. I’ve been pretty quiet here because life is lifeing hard right now, but tonight my spirit cracked a little bit. My husband showed me a picture of our wayward 18-year-old son tonight. Before I knew it, every emotion I had managed to stuff way deep down inside welled up and spilled over as hot tears. Anguish. Angst. Hurt. Fear. Fury. Pain. All bubbled up in one swift cut, stealing my breath and robbing me of my steel-cut resolve.
I haven’t laid eyes on my son since May. I haven’t heard his voice or wrapped my arms around his skinny frame in five months. Not a text message. Not a phone call. Not an email. Not a smoke signal. Nothing. So, to have a picture tipped under my nose smacked me back a few steps. I’ve heard whispers handed down third and forth hand that he’s still alive and breathing, but no direct contact.
I’ve become someone that he used to know. Or, that’s how it feels inside my throbbing heart. My hubby, man I love his face, just wrapped me in his arms while I pulled myself together. I can only imagine the looks that flash across my face as he watched me take in our sons image. If I don’t say it, my face will scream it.
I find myself going over the last six months, the last year, the last few years, trying to figure out where things went left instead of right. Where I misstepped and bobbled the C4 wrapped nitro-laced stick of dynamite that walked away without a backward glance. I can’t see it. I don’t know. And not knowing hurts as much as his absence.
I know tonight, after I settle the girl-child in for the night, as my hubby snores lovingly next to me, my momma mind will recall that quick picture again. My heart will ache. My eyes may water. And my mind will run a race around the last weeks, months, and years.
Yeah, parenting is fun. Just don’t bobble the human bombs.
