It’s that time of year, I suppose

Been feeling a little meh. I suppose an inventory would be good.

I’m doing much better physically, although it took a solid 3 weeks to get past the flu and nagging upper respiratory ick.
I’m definitely still stressed at work, thanks to the realization that there really needs to be about 3 of me right now to handle all the stuff I’m trying to handle alone.
I’m also a little under the pile at home. It’s just not easy trying to be a good mom to a 14 year old. And the FPK is not what I would call an “easy” child. He’s a great kid, but quirky doesn’t even begin to tell the tale. He’s so bright and talented and strong-willed and articulate and sensitive and trying to be himself in a world that doesn’t necessarily reward being truly unique.
I get that. But I don’t get it. I mean, I was different back in High School. Nobody really got me. But I was able to let that go most of the time. And I was much more interested in having fun than being accepted exactly as I was. So, I learned early on to find groups of people who would let me be mostly me- and to dial back the stuff that pissed them off. And I learned to accept people mostly on their own terms (with some notable and highly explosive exceptions that I am willing to take responsibility for). So, I knew most everybody, hung out with most everybody and tried on a lot of different labels.
The Boy has decided to choose a couple of labels and wear them loudly and proudly. And he expects all people to deal with that. Actually, more than deal with it. He wants everyone to live up to standards that few mature people manage to, much less his high school peers. And, to no one’s surprise, he is disappointed regularly. By teachers, by students, by family members.
I want to tell him that it’s not right to be so rigid about who you are. That this- above any time in the life span of a human- is one of the best times to stretch and grow and see what you believe in and who you believe you are. I want to tell him to add labels. Or to tear them all off and just be.
But that’s not him. And so I ache. I ache for the times he lashes out at us for not understanding (even though we get so much more than he’ll ever know). I ache for the times he has to stand up to stupidity and bullying. I ache with the knowledge that while I cry myself to sleep on his behalf, he is crying in his room… believing that he is alone in all this. I ache for his choice to be alone in all this, rather than trust us with his pain.
Meanwhile, it’s that stretch of the semester between midterms and finals. The holiday busy season looms, with the insanity that ALWAYS brings. Registration for next semester is done, so the book lists and invoices will arrive soon. And the brain is just about to hit that TILT point, at which no more new rules for a foreign language can come in. At least not with something else falling out.
So I feel meh. I feel like I’m carrying as much to Jesus as I can every day, but even getting it from my list to God’s ears is so hard. Can I just point? And grunt? Like a toddler who knows what she needs, but hasn’t yet learned how to ask…
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