Springtime

Spring season - a time of new growth, new shoots, new beginnings, new hope.  From the wasteland, a speck of green appears, and although its lifecycle is predetermined, the optimism that the first new shoot brings to the observer, lightens the heart, lifts the spirit and energises the mind.

I've waited eight long months.  Silently waited.  I've silently endured the ignominy of my Ex's family's opprobrium at things going so badly wrong with my son.  I've crumpled countless times from the frustration at my Out-laws' audacity to insist beyond reasonable or legal or moral bounds that if they had my son under their roof, they - and he - must have nothing to do with me.  Of their insistence - largely acquiesced to by the educational institution - that they could act as his guardians and be in control of all pastoral and other matters despite there being absolutely no agreement in this regard.  I've received messages telling me not to contact my son (I text him twice a week to say hi and wish him a good week/end - nothing more, nothing less); they have trumpeted down to the school demanding redress when they heard I had been in touch with the school administrator - the one person in this whole nasty twisted mess who saw through them all from the moment they met.

It's all so dysfunctional. And yet still I try to make sense of it.

I waited silently because to do otherwise would have meant the risk of him losing what is essentially a safe roof over his head (the alternative being quite the opposite of a warm home and food on the table). It would also have meant I had to be prepared to take him back, and as it took me almost three months to recover physically, I was not ready for that then, nor has he been ready to come back.

And in the middle of all of this, a yawning and cold silence from my son.

Until recently.

His birthday was on the evening of a dress rehearsal performance by Teen 2, which T1 attended with us.  A week later, he came for dinner then to the airport to pick up T2 from a school trip.  Today, he came to his brother's paint-balling 'birthday party' (in the pouring rain!), followed by dinner here at home.  And best of all, at his suggestion, we played a card game after dinner, when I sat there distractedly losing, while attentively watching, listening and loving having my three sons with me around the table.

In the car on the way to take him back to the Out-laws (whose Power/Control issues seemed to dissipate from my mind with every minute I spent at the dinner table this evening with my three boys), a conversational break through: he offered an unsolicited admission of his bad behaviour, and, an apology.  A simple, small, heartfelt apology: "I'm really sorry mum".  Followed by a small feeler put out that should he get on track, could he maybe come home next year?

Yes! Yes! Yes! cried my inner Mother Goddess.
No! cautioned my hurt self, not unless we set some ground rules first.  Drugs are still part of his life.  And commitment to working towards a goal would be needed first.

I remained silent on the detail.  I told him that his home is here with me and his brothers and would always be so.  When he is ready, he and I can sit and talk about what this might look like.

I wonder if from these small beginnings, a flourishing, new relationship with my son will occur.  My heart warms at the thought.