I was told this would be the easy part.

Granted, I am the one who said this, but still. We got through the halo and expected smooth sailing after its removal.

This is not smooth sailing.

Our lives since Friday have felt like a steady stream of struggle. The Husband and I had, long before the halo was recommended, scheduled a beach getaway for last weekend. We delayed it by a day once the removal was scheduled and drove to The Mom and Dad’s on Friday afternoon, The Kid giggling happily in the backseat. So far, so good. Then we sat him in his booster seat for dinner and he blew cheese cracker chunks all over the kitchen.

It went downhill from there. An early morning Saturday phone call and prescription pick-up, hours of crying and holding and comforting. Begging him to drink Pedialyte and monitoring his wet diapers to determine whether an ER visit was necessary. More of the same the next day. We hoped he would turn a corner when we came back home on Sunday, the way he had when we returned from the hospital and he practically walked on water.

The nausea subsided, but a new villain reared its head: the return of the dreaded tilt. I turned from the sink Monday morning and saw him in his booster seat, head drooping to the left. My heart sank and I felt sick.

Not again.

For two days, TK has weaved in and out of fits of fussiness ranging from whining to inconsolable screams. I’ve felt catapulted back into the newborn weeks of uncertainty and fear and frustration: my baby is crying and I can’t help. The worst feeling. Except for one.

I took a lifeline and phoned a friend. I explained the crying, the fear, the lapping of the waves of insanity. I feared a pat response when I began, “I just feel so…”

And then, hope in the form of identification.

“Mad,” she finished.

I released a days-held breath. “Yes,” I said. “And then I feel bad about that–”

“Guilt,” she responded.

“So guilty,” I said.

“And you feel like you just want to leave,” she finished.

Finally someone knew. Because here’s the thing: we’re all sort of obsessed with hearing and telling each other that we’re good moms. Why can’t we just be moms? I’m James’s mom, and I’m exactly the mom he needs. I’m a good mom and I’m a shitty mom. I’m the whole range, because I’m great at some things and I suck at others. And not having answers? Listening to crying that I can’t relieve? Are a couple of things at which I suck.

It’s hard to write a but after that, especially right now. But…

TK’s redemption, and mine, wouldn’t happen if I were only coasting along on my strengths. If my life were one perfect Pinterest page of recipes and crafts and Mommy-nirvana. Somehow, these dark, tear-soaked moments are playing just as much into grace’s hand as the pretty ones–maybe even more so.

Grace and I have bigger goals for this family than turning out like a Norman Rockwell painting.

Last night TH lay down with TK at bedtime and I lay face down on our bed, commencing an ugly crying session complete with snot and gagging. And after my well of emotion ran dry–after all the anger and resentment and sadness and frustration was emptied with my mascara onto the bedspread–I was still. I felt spent, and if not better, then..well, I just felt. I felt deeply, and I felt more than frustration and anger. In the quiet, with sobs subsided and TK cooing two rooms away, I felt the truth trickle in, one drop and thought at a time. I realized that the ugliness feels so much more out of place when you know you’re meant for beauty, and that recognizing this isn’t negativity but awareness. This should suck. Not knowing if the past six weeks worked, not being able to immediately comfort my child, not knowing whether he’s just tired or in pain–all of this sucks and is so much less than what we were made for. And just “chin-up”ing it and trying to keep a positive attitude is not an answer so much as it is accepted etiquette. I may not always/ever have the most positive attitude, but what I do have is an ultimate hope. And that hope tells me that these ugly, hopeless-feeling moments are being worked into good. Into beautiful. Even when I’m struggling to believe it.

This morning TK’s doctor saw us. He felt TK’s neck and shoulders and in a rare moment of affection, kissed his head. He told me to hang in there. He said it’s likely a muscle spasm, and I hope he’s right, because there’s an app for that. Not to mention that muscle relaxers sound pretty good right now. Maybe I’ll share them with TK.

We walked back through the waiting room, I and my tilted-head toddler, and I glanced around at the other parents and kids fighting their own battles, trudging their own rough road. It’s so unfair, I thought, and think, about the things these kids have to go through. About the parents’ hearts that break for them. When I first noticed the tilt’s return, I felt an awful darkness whisper into my ear: This will never get better. You hoped and believed for nothing. This is your life now–IT WILL ALWAYS BE THIS HARD.

Last night, after I stopped crying, I felt a different whisper. You are exactly where you are supposed to be. The tears and fear threaten to interpret that as a threat: God has you right where he wants you. But you know what? The ugliness feels too wrong for it to be the truest thing. So I cast my lot with grace, and wait through the tears for the light to arrive and reveal more. Reveal the beautiful.