A pack of smokes, a bottle of vodka and a guy-who-won't-give-up later, I finally went to sleep. Only to have my alarm go off at 7am, a short one hour later. My son did not want to go to ISS this morning, and my head agreed, but I am determined to make an impression on him that his behavior has severe consequences. Although I have the hearing on Monday, where I am almost certain the recommendation will be alternative education at the high school, I have to stay strong with him. Love and logic is no longer working, so I am now trying tough-love mixed in with scared straight as the approach to Zach's issues. As I drain my fourth cup of coffee, I am hoping for a bright future for him. I never thought I would be a single parent for sure. It is a tough job. I suppose if I weren't already dealing with this loneliness of my own that the daunting job of parent would seem less draining.
I have been thinking of my own childhood. He does not know how good he has it. I stand in his room, looking at the mural of Ranger Stadium, which I am completing, and the rows of books and baseball memorabilia, and I wonder if he appreciates any of the things I do. He has this idea that he is entitled to everything. I know children; sweet, adorable, giving children, who appreciate all acts of kindness because they have been taught to have such values. Zach, heretofore, has not been shown that he needs to be thankful for what he has.
He also has no remorse. He knows that the adoption paperwork has already been started. He believes that, like my aunt, I will make excuses for him and get him out of trouble. As much as I want to do that, want to make things just go away, I know that he needs to take responsibility for his own actions, like we all do.
I sit in church, as I do every week, and talk to God about my life. Not that he needs a recap or anything, but I have always taken the time to have small chats with Him. My mother instilled in me at a young age, that I would never be alone as long as I had a strong relationship with God. Because my ideas or actions do not always align themselves with His text, I try to allow that I am flawed, like every other human being, and that I try to make choices based on my heart, a heart that is good and kind. I know this about myself for sure.
Should I sew a scarlet 'A' onto the front of all my shirts and change my name to Hester? I do not think so. I am a caring woman who never intends on hurting anyone, ever. Michael said in one sentence that I should use my head more often but then, "follow your heart." It seems that all of us have a skewed version of life where love is concerned. He said I was a "means to an end" and that I have to realize this. "It doesn't make you gullible," he said, "just naive or maybe sincere." I had to laugh at that one. Who knew my gooey insides could be used against me.
Which brings me back to my mother, who said "protect yourself, your heart, at all costs." On the weekends we were allowed to see her, those were the words she left me with almost every night when she tucked my into bed, a fold out couch in the living room that my brother and I shared. For most of my life, I did just that. I encased my heart in a sort of metaphysical tomb. Now I wish it had stayed buried.
I have been thinking of my own childhood. He does not know how good he has it. I stand in his room, looking at the mural of Ranger Stadium, which I am completing, and the rows of books and baseball memorabilia, and I wonder if he appreciates any of the things I do. He has this idea that he is entitled to everything. I know children; sweet, adorable, giving children, who appreciate all acts of kindness because they have been taught to have such values. Zach, heretofore, has not been shown that he needs to be thankful for what he has.
He also has no remorse. He knows that the adoption paperwork has already been started. He believes that, like my aunt, I will make excuses for him and get him out of trouble. As much as I want to do that, want to make things just go away, I know that he needs to take responsibility for his own actions, like we all do.
I sit in church, as I do every week, and talk to God about my life. Not that he needs a recap or anything, but I have always taken the time to have small chats with Him. My mother instilled in me at a young age, that I would never be alone as long as I had a strong relationship with God. Because my ideas or actions do not always align themselves with His text, I try to allow that I am flawed, like every other human being, and that I try to make choices based on my heart, a heart that is good and kind. I know this about myself for sure.
Should I sew a scarlet 'A' onto the front of all my shirts and change my name to Hester? I do not think so. I am a caring woman who never intends on hurting anyone, ever. Michael said in one sentence that I should use my head more often but then, "follow your heart." It seems that all of us have a skewed version of life where love is concerned. He said I was a "means to an end" and that I have to realize this. "It doesn't make you gullible," he said, "just naive or maybe sincere." I had to laugh at that one. Who knew my gooey insides could be used against me.
Which brings me back to my mother, who said "protect yourself, your heart, at all costs." On the weekends we were allowed to see her, those were the words she left me with almost every night when she tucked my into bed, a fold out couch in the living room that my brother and I shared. For most of my life, I did just that. I encased my heart in a sort of metaphysical tomb. Now I wish it had stayed buried.
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