The Second Time is Harder

Raising kids has never been an easy task.

I want to write something deeply profound about my experience.

I’m so tired.

We sat in that stripped bare room again. No bags allowed. Sat and waited for them to find a place to send her.

They’re all struggling. They’re all in therapy. It’s hard. It’s relentless.

I’m tired.

We both lost it. I wasn’t as prepared this time. I knew what we were doing, but I was not prepared. Five hours we waited.

I texted a friend. I couldn’t stand on my own. The rest of the family was at home. My Rock taking care of the other kids. Our supportive and weathered oldest and youngest.

I have a friend! She is there as I’m told we’re going to have to wait until morning for transportation. As I have the anxious conversation with my husband, with our caseworker, with my kid.

I have to work in the morning.

A new approach. A new location. We have a place tonight. Right now. Time to go. Say goodbye. I love you kid.

My friend drives me home. Half an hour of me on the verge of coming undone again. I’m home. It’s late. One kid’s asleep, the other looking for a snack.

I know I talked to my sister. The one who lost her husband, not quite a year ago. I didn’t remember. I still don’t remember what we said. I know it was long.

Our middle kid is struggling. It’s hard to see her empty room. The cat sleeping in there waiting for her return. I grabbed a plate for her for dinner and remembered she’s eating dinner somewhere else.

I talked to the doctor today. We got to talk to our kid too. She was miserable, then feeling pretty good. This is how it goes. Ups and downs.

I’m struggling.

I’ve got this. We can get through this.

I’m just tired.