He looks at me, clearly frustrated, with anger in his eyes.
You don’t love me as much as you love them,
I get in trouble for things they never do. You think they are perfect and I am dirt.
This cuts to my very core. I should run to him, hold him, rock him and tell him he’s wrong.
Instead I yell. Not my finest moment indeed,
but I am tired of this conversation. It is the same one we have every day.
He doesn’t believe me. He can’t accept his poor choices are the reasons for getting in trouble.
All he sees, in his 8 year old eyes, are his sisters and baby brother playing and happy,
as he is grounded, in time out, or losing privileges.
I am so tired of the fighting, so weary of the frustration, so over not knowing what to do.
I wrack my brain, looking for an answer.
I spend so much time on my knees, in constant prayer.
I try so hard to remember when he stopped singing.
My Mom used to tell me, He sings because he is happy.
He used to sing all the time. Star Wars, Harry Potter, Primary songs, he was always singing.
When did that stop?
When did he become so miserable? And how did I not notice?
All he wants is more attention. I give as much as I humanly can
but he is not the only one who needs me.
Tonight my heart is breaking.
As he slept, I crawled into his bed next to him.
I told him I loved him, I told him I needed him, I told him he is my heart.
He, the child who came to me when I was in my darkest hour,
he, the one who healed me and began to help me become whole once again,
he, the child who saved my life,
He is my heart.
I just wish I could help him see that.
I just wish he could see himself as I do.
I just wish I knew how to help him.