It’s just you & me today.
You, Little Boy who has dedicated a good chunk of the past year to scream at me, to let me know how much you can’t stand me, to tell me “EVERYTHING WOULD BE BETTER IF YOU DIDN’T EXIST” and “I WISH YOU’D NEVER COME HERE” and “GO BACK TO YOUR COUNTRY” and my personal favorite “YOU’RE SO FAT AND YOUR BREATH STINKS.”
You, Little Boy who has pulled out pieces of my hair, bitten me, bruised me, made me bleed.
You’d never guess the truth, My Dear Boy. I am so patient with you, patient on the outside at least. But the truth is… a lot of the time I can’t stand being around you. The truth is… a lot of the time your behavior makes me feel miserable. The truth is… every single day I make a choice to stay, instead of throwing my things into a suitcase and taking off like I want to.
It’s Katy Perry who I feel understands this about me best: “Days like this I want to drive away. Pack my bags and watch your shadow fade. You chewed me up and spit me out like I was poison in your mouth. You took my light, you drained me down…” I know that sounds dramatic, but that’s how I so often feel.
I hate the way you treat me, My Boy.
I hate the way your words & actions strike me like shrapnel. Digging in deep, crippling.
I hate how often I struggle to crawl out of bed in the morning, how much I dread discovering what kind of chaos another day with you will contain.
But most of all, I hate how life has treated you. I hate the trauma, the neglect, the abandonment you lived through during those first four years of your life. I hate how deeply those experiences have wounded you, carved scars into your spirit.
“Out of the overflow of the heart the mouth speaks” God has told us. So I know. I know, My Dear, that every nasty word you hurl at me, every violent action you attack me with, is simply the pain inside your own heart. You are hurting, you are devastated, you are brokenhearted. I know.
Sometimes I slip into your room while you’re sleeping. I sit down on your Lightning McQueen bed and I listen to you breathe and I watch your little ribcage rise & fall. It’s when you’re asleep that I remember best the truth that you are just a little boy, whose eight years have held an entire ocean of pain & heartbreak.
Still though it’s so easy for me to forget. I get so sick of the same old same old we repeat each day. This rhythm of forgiveness. Over and over and over again. Loving you has worn me out, My Boy. I am exhausted.
So it’s just you & me here today.
You are riding your bicycle around the park as fast as you can. I am sitting in the tower, drinking coffee & watching you race around and around and around. I watch you, and I see you, I really see you. I look past the atrocious behavior, I look past the scars you’ve carved into me, I look past all the wretched moments that so often cloud my memory and I see you. I see my Beautiful Boy. I see my Silly, Generous, Joyful, Confident, Hilarious, Sensitive, Kind & Brave Son. My Little George of the Jungle, as you so love to call yourself. = )
And I am only thinking one thing, as I sit here and watch you on your bicycle, smiling at me while my tears roll down my face and into my coffee.
It’s so worth it.
Loving you is worth it. Mothering you is worth it. Staying is worth it.
You are worth it, My Beautiful Boy.