Dad on Duty #65

I was really looking forward to seeing my boy today. He’s been gone for a while.

His behaviors have continued to deteriorate, and are now beyond anything we can handle here. So he is somewhere else.

I am standing in the calm, in the light. He is caught in a dark storm. When I have his hand, on those days I am with him, I seem to be able to pull him from the maelstrom out into the still, sunlit world. Where we are.

Today in particular was a happy day. Full of laughs and sunshine and fun.

And he’s not here.

I close my eyes, and I see him….in a storm. I fear he is becoming a lost soul.

I melt down for a few minutes in the bus hallway. There’s not much privacy here, and the last thing these kids want to see is the Dad on Duty crying. I hide for a moment in a side hall, then shake it off and continue on my mission of delivering some jackets to lost and found.

I have spent hours talking with him, doing social studies sheets, coercing him into eating his lunch (not just the pudding; you gotta eat the sandwich), listening to him describe the characters he’s created in his games.

I believe he was better when he was with me.

His sister, I realize, has become a surrogate. I’m trying to stuff her so full of love that it will somehow flow through to him. I need to dial it down I think; I’m over-compensating. But she is the closest thing I have to him now. Every time I pass her I squeeze her like I’m trying to get toothpaste out of her. She loves it. But I doubt it’s reaching him.

I feel…literally feel….his hand in mine. But my grip is slipping. Am I letting go, or is something pulling him from me? He’s sliding into darkness, out of my grasp. There is so much light and love here where I am. How can it be, that I can’t bring him to it? Or bring it to him? Is there a difference?

How can this be?

I squeeze his sister one more time as she boards her bus. Please, please bring this light to him, little girl.

I have no other way.