
Some days, it’s just hard.
We are school shopping again (not for clothes but for a school).
The school records are such a mess. My son has attended five high schools in the past four years and has been in summer schools in three juvenile detention locations over the past two summers.
I know that I just had that file with the final grades/transcripts from each school a few months ago and now...
...it is nowhere to be found.
So in trying to find it, I am digging through boxes that contain the records of everything that happened at each school, mental health placement and court case.
The papers trigger vivid memories of the drugs, the violence, the daily failures to attend to school work or even attend school, the attempted therapeutic interventions, the years of driving to visit him where ever he was.
How tempting it is to just throw my hands up and say I have endured enough, I have done enough. He is turning 18 soon, isn’t this supposed to be over then?
The painful memories these papers hold have me curled into a ball on the floor rocking myself for comfort.
When I come across the little hand written note from him thanking me for ‘believing in him when it didn’t look so good’, it too was a rough emotional jolt. Did I need that reminder of how important his parents' love is to him when I am busy feeling frustrated and angry?
I reach out to someone for a little help, for I cannot open one more file of memories.
Thankfully, the guidance counselor from his last school faxes me the copies of the other schools' transcripts.
Such relief. I can put the boxes of days gone by away, throw some water on my face and head out the door to see if the next school I talk to can help this young man to graduate.
In his own way, he longs for normalcy and so do I.
So do I.














