I’ve been vacillating between never caring to write anything ever again, and having vague writing ideas that struggle to surface from the ether of my subconscious.
Back when my mind was a tightly wound coil holding onto survival, I was counter-intuitively more observant, more aware. And I seemed to stay alive BY writing. Now my brain seems slack, unable to hold onto anything for any period of time. Is this grief?
It’s been just over five months since we placed Jack. Sometimes I feel fine, like we are adjusting. Some days I don’t feel openly sad, but fatigue and depression permeate everything.
Every time I visit Jack, I see that everything is different. I’m not in control anymore. I don’t see his day to day routine. He grows, his face changes, his body changes, our relationship changes.
I’m starting to see that Jack’s new life will continue to play out with distinction from mine. I don’t have any great insights about this. It hurts. At the same time, it feels as though it is working as it should. I can’t explain it.
I’m at the tail end of a milestone trip with my eldest and third sons—the sort of thing that never could have happened pre-placement. We are visiting my sister Sarah in San Francisco, the city that wins the charm award. I love it here. My boys are enamored with it. I am enamored watching their excitement.
As their childhood slips by, these experiences are like fence posts. They mark the time, give us memories, become a reference point in the landslide of changing family life.
Photos may be forthcoming. If not, there’s always Instagram (aka, the lazy woman’s blog. Kidding, I just prefer Instagram because it’s easy and doesn’t expect a lot from me).