And out of all these things I’ve done, I think I love you better now

Every Monday afternoon, the boys and I head to a suburb twenty minutes away for The Kid’s two hours of therapy. Little Brother and I sit in the waiting room where he yells profanity or plays games with me while TK works in the back. One Monday each month, LB and I come to the back too, to a separate room from TK’s, where LB alternately plays with the toys and seeks our attention while TK’s team of therapists and I discuss his progress and challenges.

These meetings have run the spectrum (see what I did there?) between awful and poignant, terrible and magical. When they first began, I more often felt like I was being called to the principal’s office to discuss what was shittiest about my parenting out of all the shitty things I do. It’s possible that I was a bit defensive and over-sensitive, but it’s also possible that the meetings were run in a bit of a condescending fashion. Since those early days there has been a handover to a new leader, a few changes on the team, and, not for nothing, some growth in TK, and myself, and between us and the people who sit in that room.

So yesterday was a bit magical. Both inside and outside that room.

LB started back to school yesterday, but TK’s term started a day after–so he and I got one of those rarities to share: time together that wasn’t just about therapy. We went to the playground with some friends, then through the McDonald’s drive-thru (I did not have any confrontations this time!), then back to Ant-Man and the Wasp for another go. We made it through the whole thing this time. If sitting through a two-hour film could be considered a life skill (I SAY IT IS), then I am an expert–but up to this point it has been unheard of for TK, until now. I think the handcuffs helped. J/K! He was just as mesmerised as I was by the story, and watching a woman don a suit (that wasn’t cut to expose every inch of her skin) and kick all kinds of ass? YEAH, THAT HAPPENED TOO.

Once we got to the therapy centre and TK went to his room, LB and I settled in to ours and I talked about TK. I recounted progress from the last month and mentioned weaknesses. I saw nodding heads. I heard quotes from his sessions (in one, he got upset about something and he told the therapist he was going to have her fired.) I listened to moments of understanding and plans geared toward his well-being.

It was a good day.

Not every day is, of course. There are the tough ones, the sad ones. TK has had trouble with those lately–specifically, the “sad bits” he doesn’t want to discuss. He runs from conversations about difficult things, which for him includes cuts and scrapes, accidents and such. His anxiety extends to a fear of getting in trouble I think, even about things that aren’t offences, and he’ll say it when we bring such topics up: “ONLY HAPPY THINGS! We don’t talk about the sad things!” And we tell him, again, that we have to talk about the happy and sad things. That we talk about all the things here.

I get it, though. We live in a filtered world, in a place where images are curated and narratives are chosen. I guess that could extend into some homes, where hard topics are avoided and difficult conversations aren’t had? Well I’ll be damned if that happens here. We’re back on the Feelings Train, that space in the dark at the end of the day when all the feelings are discussed (don’t tell The Husband; he’s still at the station acting like he forgot his wallet; also, LB is getting a bit too freestyle with his, bringing up shit that happened eons ago. We’ll deal with that later).

We went to the mountains last weekend, where we celebrated Christmas in July at a family-friendly hotel that boasted a cinema, game room, ball pit, car and train and pony rides, indoor pool, and Santa at a shitty buffet dinner that cost a month’s car payment. The kids were in heaven. TH and I were…fine. At breakfast one morning–a repeated scene of meltdowns and chaos–the little girl at the table next to us took off her shirt in the middle of eating her eggs and sat, bare-chested, while her dad begged her to put it back on. I sat drinking my coffee and pretending it was wine. TK turned to me and pointed at her (ha. I remember when he couldn’t point). “She’s showing her private bits,” he stage-whispered to me multiple times, his observation the product of a recent health course at school. What he called private bits is something that, at home, is called a belly shirt. At home, where we’ve recently had to relegate all talk of farts and butts and wieners. At home, where we can talk about anything.

At home, where we have an incredible view that we could never afford were we not shipped here by God and a credit bureau who pays for it (for now), a view that prompted one of my friends to semi-jokingly say, “If I had this view I think my problems would disappear.” I get that too. It feels silly to worry about a leak in the roof when we’re surrounded by gorgeous water. It feels silly to think anything could be sad.

Yet I still take Lexapro and we still go to therapy every Monday and we (I) still worry, and this is our life: the good days and the hard, the sad bits and happy, the mountains and the beaches. We settle back into our routine, missing pieces of ourselves that had to travel back across the Pacific, navigating changes and differences, and the boys sit at their LEGO table, across from (fighting) and next to (befriending) each other, these waves and their ups and downs not interrupting our life, but filling it.