You're walking through your dark house, shaking your head at the idiocy of cleaning at one in the morning, at the futility of trying to erase the evidence of your son's latest meltdown, wishing your mother hadn't seen him at his worst, throwing furniture and candles and chess pieces and coasters and books and smashing glass and putting another hole in the wall and calling her fat ass and punching his brother and threatening to kill the family pet and then you, because he's always wanted to cut someone's guts out. And as he scratches your legs with his jagged nails you tell him over and over that he can break everything in the room and keep hurting you and you won't leave him alone because you are going to keep him safe and love him no matter what.
And then you're glad your mom's seen him at his worst because it makes it more real, not something you can pretend was no big deal, and you know you may have to put him back in the hospital, and you cry impotently as you flash back to the last hospitalization and relive the shame you felt when you left him, small and alone in a sterile room, and breathed a sigh of profound relief.
And you feel even more shame because you can't find any gratitude for your child, this precious life that you brought into the world.
And you wonder if you'll sleep at all tonight, and you go on-line because in blogworld you're never really alone, and a woman you've never met assures you that, yes, this is hard, and another shows you that the future has a way of working out in ways you can't imagine. And you find your eyes finally heavy enough to close them for the night.
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