custody

A Mother's Day of Hope and Bittersweet Dreams

I'm writing this on Mother's Day, a day that is filled with joy and also bittersweet for this year my grandsons and granddaughter have been given their freedom, the freedom to live without fear, without danger, without verbal or physical abuse, without the scourge that drugs bring into a home, without hunger or wanting of a different life, a better life, a secure and safe life, a home to call their own, a bedroom in which to lay their heads at night and know the nightmare is over, that they are wrapped up in the bosom of the love of a family who will do everything in our power to show them it doesn't have to be the way it has been for so many years, that peace and freedom are theirs now, that they have a future they only dreamed of, that it has finally come, the day of liberation for them, a glorious day.

My son has been in a custody fight for his children for several months, it's been a difficult time but has come to a happy ending but it brings with it the pain of a mother who has lost her way and hope by those who have watched that she finds a better way.

I say bittersweet in the title because this Mother's Day is a day of hope and wonder, the hope of dreams lost coming true, the hope that we can turn away from drugs and alcohol, the hope that we will find it in us to reach further than a glass pipe or a bottle, the hope that we have it in us to do better for our children, the hope that we can save ourselves and thus save our children. That the we that once was my son and me becomes the we for my daughter-in-law as well.


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I treat my writing like a privilege. It comes after editing the work of others and helping children learn proper grammar while developing their own style and voice. It comes after making sure my child's homework is done and making sure she is fed, clothes, and educated. It comes after everything. Scraps of stories and poems languish , missing deadlines and submission dates. There is no room of my own. My writing is interrupted constantly by requests and vacuuming and cries for food and attention and I feel guilty saying no, I am working on something that is mine. Thus I devalue my own work, my own voice.


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