I pick him up at 3 on Tuesdays and Fridays.

But only on those days. So far. That is when school ends, after all. But every other day, I pop into the office and sign him out with the same reason–therapy–even though that’s not the whole story. Sure, most days we actually do have therapy, but that’s not the sum of it. The reason I’m there at 1:40 instead of 3–the reason I get to peek into the window and watch him finishing lunch and am rewarded a secret smile, often with Little Brother barreling in ahead of me–is because after his first day, his teacher suggested that maybe we ease him into this, his kindergarten year in a mainstream school. I nodded, sadness sharing space with relief, because even with our early pickup, even with this “special” arrangement, we’re still so much further along than we were before we got here. We’re still in such a different class than we would be back in the States. This 5…it’s still our 10. And when we started, it was every day at 1:40. Now it’s just three of them.

So the journey continues, our non-linear progressions still progress. Still a story unfurling.

Last weekend we went to the local amusement park and purchased our annual passes and revisited all the spots we saw for the first time a few weeks ago. The growth in familiarity might have contributed to The Kid’s bravery, but it wasn’t the sum of it. He approached the ride with me–the one we didn’t get to try last time–and pulled me along. He waited slightly more patiently than last time. And this time, we climbed into the seat together. This time they pulled the safety bar down and we spun around the track, glee across both of our faces, and he checked the crowd to make sure his dad and brother were watching. That there were witnesses. And as soon as we pulled to a stop, he yanked my arm. “I want to go again!” he shouted. He would do it all over again, all the ups and downs, the terror and the joy. What bravery.

Would I?

These are the moments that mothers share with each other when they’ve dug deep in, when they’ve built trust and shared glances and laughs and tears, when they’ve huddled closely over drinks or phones and told each other the darkest things they’ve thought: that sometimes they dream of running away. All the best mothers I know have admitted it. Because–and here’s the thing–all the best mothers I know, know they’re not up to it. Because “it”–this raising of young hearts and minds–it’s a big fucking deal. And the best mothers I know, who are also the best people I know, know that they are not the best mothers. They’re just the ones called to the job who keep showing up. And some days, this must be enough. Because sometimes it’s all there is. So we show up at each other’s hard days, on each other’s last miles, and we bring water and wine and words, and we talk and listen and know that we’re in this together. And that some days we want to quit.

But some days…oh. Some days.

Last night, TK was asking me more. Asking me about everything, like he’s been doing lately, and over a fifteen-minute conversation (THE BOY WASN’T SPEAKING A WORD FIFTEEN MONTHS AGO), it came out that someone in his class had gotten into a fight with another kid and the first kid had gotten in trouble and sent to the office. And the fact that he told me this? Okay, the fact that he gave me enough information for me to surmise this? This is what miracles are, people. He asked, and I answered, and I asked, and he answered, and piece by piece we unraveled the mystery together. And after the litany of questions and answers and not a small amount of frustration on my part over what it takes to communicate sometimes, this fleeting thought happened:

Maybe I’m actually made for this.

This dual life, this grief and joy and upheaval and peace and these questions and answers and these traffic-laden trips to therapy with shits in the backseat and apologies afterward (mine) and moments on the couch talking about other kids having to go to reflection time, and he and I finally, FINALLY speaking the same language? Maybe the arduous moments and the easy ones and the ugly and beautiful fit me better than I even know. Maybe the fact that it took over four years for him to say what LB says so easily now–“I love you, Mommy”–is what makes it matter so much more to hear from both of them. Maybe the trust we’ve built together that has brought them to saying it is what makes everything matter. The sum of it held in those words which are so much more than just those words.

Because our grief and joy and upheaval and peace and questions and answers are so much heartier and thicker and heavier than they would have been were it not for those dark and digging moments. Those backseat shits.

And in church on Sunday, as I sit by myself in the pew while TH takes them to kids’ church, the light is streaming through an upper window and right onto my lap, where the words are printed on a sheet of paper. I think about how TK is so sensitive to light, how it’s good he’s across the way, how he’s right where he should be. Because this light, it’s nearly blinding me, hitting me like it is. This light that feels like it’s making the words so hard to see, even while it’s exactly the thing that’s making me see them.