Logan was here for a week. There were no blowups. No angry fits...by either of us. He is changed. I am changed. Life was good, albeit different.
I am up ridiculously early to take him to the airport to go back and finish up school. He will be home for good in a month. How did we get here? How did we get to a place where he can come home and he can be pleasant, generally fun to be around, respectful, kind and loving? Not perfect but as close to it as I have ever seen. How did we get here?
My son rose. Somehow all the talking, therapy, removal from a life that has always been good to him despite what he thought, has finally landed in his heart and mind at the same time. Finally, at least it appears, that he is different. He is committed to living a different life, to having a different experience. It was truly a transformation. Not completely sure I can rely upon it, but then again, what in life can you absolutely be certain of?
My son rose to the occasion of his life. He is not the same person I sent away last August. He is not a completely different person either. He still has issues, he still will have challenges. But he is different. He has risen to the challenge of altering himself instead of insisting that the world accommodate him, always. He has begun to see that true freedom comes when you can and will roll with life’s punches, when you can see that it is so much easier to change yourself to fit the world, rather than insist that the world always change to suit you.
He is still him. We still don’t agree on many, many things. But he was loving, kind, respectful and worked hard to right things when they went sideways. And this is new. This is evidence of a son who is rising. Rising high on the horizon of his own life. Excited to do the work, because he now can see, that which he could not before, that it is always going to be his life and the choices he makes, result in his level of happiness and contentment. No one else has to be around him. Not me, not his dad or sister, not my parents, not friends. It is his life and he can behave in ways that help him achieve good stuff, or he can act like an ass and be left alone with consequences that are hard to live with...it is his life after all.
It felt good to feel the love from him. It felt good not to just have to be the heavy telling him no all the time. It felt good for him to give me respect solely because I am his mother. It felt good to be cared about and for. He rose. He changed.
I am relieved. I am hopeful. I know it will never be easy street with him. He is tough at times, as am I. We are not easy breezy personalities. But the demons that caused such a dumpster fire last year, seem to be no longer smoldering. He seems to have put out the fire and now made a strong commitment to move forward and away from his decision to live in a dumpster in the first place.
It is a marvelous thing to watch your child grow up. A privilege. An honor. A lot of parents do not get that chance. A lot of parents are forced to send their children away to be raised by others who can perhaps give their child what they cannot. That is such a hard road to walk. To admit to yourself and then everyone else that despite your best efforts, your child has decided to blow up his or her life, and yours too just for good measure. It isn’t really completely intentional, but it isn’t accidental either.
So on this day, I will marvel one last time the son rise that I am privileged enough to see. I will trust that he will return to school, finish up his school work and return home in June to re-enter this wonderful life that has always been here for him, he was just too messed up to see. I am not going to lie, there is a lot of work for me in the coming month. He is not the only who needs to rise, has risen and hopefully will also find wings to soar. He is not the only one that needed to change. Me too. I have work to do as well.
But as with life, to witness a son rise, one must wake early and be patient. One must try and try again. One must trust that some days the show spectacular and worth the early morning effort, and other times, you will be disappointed that the show wasn’t better, more interesting or spectacular. I hope that I remember, I hope that I can keep in the forefront of my mind and heart, that every time this son of mine rises, I marvel. That I am grateful for any effort. That I am willing to see that rising is what matters and that while it would be lovely to always be gifted an amazingly stunning view, sometimes even son rises are just ordinary. And if I am truly there, that can be spectacular too. Watching your child pull themselves from a death spiral, to living is always worth of any and every effort expended. And beholding any son rise, a gift of this life that I pray that I never take for granted.
