This bully issue is still unresolved, but it’s close.  So close.  The next step is right around the corner and it should be the final step.  It’s been exhausting, emotionally.  My time in therapy has been mainly dedicated to talking about it.  Time with friends has been spent discussing Henry’s social and emotional health.  I wouldn’t necessarily call it all-consuming, but…maybe I’m fooling myself.

I’m not fooling myself, however, when I say that sometimes I wonder exactly what it is that makes one (me) a mother.  Is it merely the fact that I gave birth?  Is it the maternal feelings I have toward my child?  Is it the ownership of unending patience (which I don’t have?)?  Is it the ability to come up with arts and crafts on rainy afternoons and actually enjoy doing them with your kid(s) (which I don’t do)?  Is it some other elusive quality that I may or may not possess?  This question haunts me and on anxious days it downright tortures me.  Am I doing it right?  Am I enough?

I just heard the following quote and it hit me like a punch to the gut.

“A mother is only as happy as her saddest child.”

Yes.  So very yes.  I am a mother.  I might not be the craftiest.  I might not be the most patient every day.  But I ride this emotional roller coaster with him and I do what I can to pad the ride just enough.  Enough that he feels the bumps and dips but doesn’t suffer unnecessarily.  I think that’s enough.