scribblechic

At the end of a collection of long days set to a soundtrack of repetitive reprimands directed toward my son, I am tired of my voice speaking in sharp commands tinged with anger. My frustration is palpable, a live current threatening to disrupt my peace. I want to shrug this version of myself for something new – my old self.

I miss blissful ignorance and days of precociously optimistic hope that easier days were waiting just around the corner from tomorrow. My mind preoccupied with failed efforts to understand inexplicable behavior and muddled with equally unsuccessful endeavors to nurture greater independence I am exhausted by our son’s unending tangle of need.

Unable to see our future standing in a place void of clarity, I am retracing my steps to find my way.

Cocooned in an emotional conversation my husband and I spent the time between kissing our children goodnight and dreamless sleep listing our fears and trying to remember when anger became greater than faith; our efforts originating from a place of love rather than frustration, hope rather than doubt.

I promise to remember the young man hurting and struggling to make sense of his world, sometimes angry and sad, lost and overwhelmed is limited only by what we cannot believe. My husband and I must find room for our own doubts and sadness, frustration and anxiety that our emotions do not clutter the space of possibility. Our faith and love, kindness and patience give our son the strength and confidence to face his challenges. These are our promises to keep.

Tagged: Hope, Musings, Son