And my friend, I want you to know I hear you. I hear your cries and your pain. I hear your voice and it is beautiful and real. I hear your care and it touches all types. I hear your frustration. I hear you picking yourself back up off the ground. I hear your work. Above all of this... there is one thing I really, really want you to know.
In our most poignant, telling moments, life can paint the memory. True to this, when I think about that moment, her face is clear as the day she stood in front of me. A sign I should be listening to the lesson.
With pursed lips and sad eyes, I gave her the only gift I could, an understanding smile.
Yet, it didn't feel normal. I felt like I was the worst mother in the world because I couldn't help him and now he was going grow up to be a punk/bully who hit other children, wouldn't be liked and would probably end up completely adjusting his personality to be recluse, with no spark. Joy, suffocated. Hardball was not working.
We do not weep at funerals because her clothes were immaculate, her hair was precise, her teeth were blinding, makeup flawless, boobs perky, and her stomach flat. Be You.