Up until about 4:15 p.m., this was a pretty good day.
Afterwards? Not so much.
Some disappointing news on the job front led me out into the afternoon toward pick up duty for Betty and Boo. I was not (to put it mildly) in the mood to argue with my offspring about my choice of dinner selections (yes, we’re having pasta again; deal with it) nor anything else for that matter.
Which is how I almost missed what greeted me at summer camp.
I walked into a scene that would have been unimaginable not all that long ago – but one that I almost allowed my temporary frustration and my festering anger to allow me to miss. There, on a carpet with half a dozen (at least) other kids and teacher, was my son.
Playing a game.
But wait, you guys. Wait.
It gets better.
“Mom,” he says. “Can I finish up this game before we go?”
You’re damn right you can, kiddo.
As I said, the magnitude of this didn’t register with me until after I drove (just so) slightly over the speed limit to the summer camp, Bruce Springsteen’s “Lonesome Day” blaring from my car speakers at top volume.
Until after I banged the pots and pans together to boil rigatoni and microwave tomato sauce, because that’s all I could muster up the brainpower for as dinner. Until after I poured myself a glass of Merlot and then another.
Until after I sat myself down on the deck to talk sensibly to The Husband and get my game face on for another day.
Sometimes it takes us a little while to realize what’s important, what’s right there in front of us.
My kid sat down with others and PLAYED A GAME TODAY.
What did it take for that to happen, I wondered. How many years, how many therapy sessions, how many teachers? How much work?
If he can do that, overcome all those odds which were surely stacked against him, then surely I can overcome mine.
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