Another day. Another day the same as the one before it.
My son went home with another family from school last night. He has often been at their house when we've traveled. Their son and he are part of a tight group of four boys. They have five kids, and their mom is someone I trust, whom my son trusts, too.
He wanted to go with them because he couldn't handle coming home right then. He needed a safe place. I let him go, grateful that there was another family to step in.
And then I sat on the steps of the school in tears. I want to care for my son. I want to protect him. He's mine. He's my first, my oldest, the one most like me. I delight in this boy. He is my son. And I couldn't care for him. I needed to let him go to another mom to talk, to feel safe, to sleep and rest. I sat in the sun shivering, trying not to cry as moms walked by. I wanted to be there for my oldest, and I couldn't.
I'm doing ok, sort of. I'm hurting. But there are moments, when my husband is not around, that the hurt lifts enough or I bury it enough to smile and enjoy some things. Still under it all, is a deep, bleeding hurt. Like a river running underground, it makes the smiles shallow and threatens to break through at any minute. I'm not eating. Not really at all. Nothing. I can't. I can bury the hurt, but it comes out somewhere, and this is where it is coming out. I haven't ate anything but water since Saturday night. Someone made me promise I would at least drink soup, but I am not. I can't. My tummy holds my tears that drip unseen when I have to smile while I'm hurting, and there is just no room for food.
I woke in the night again last night for an hour or so. I tossed and turned. Then, suddenly, I knew I should pray - aloud. So I did. I sat and prayed aloud for cleaning of my house, for God's peace to come. That was all. Then I tossed and turned again until I slept once more.