I was talking to someone about acceptance. She asked how I was doing with accepting my son the way he is.
I replied that maybe I was a little further along, but that in all honesty, I wasn’t sure I’d ever stop wishing things were different.
This was the same day I found out that my son had punched a carer in the ribs, forcing her to go to A+E due to swelling.
On reflection, there are many layers of acceptance. If I can’t accept my son the way he is without sadness and longing for things to be different, THAT is where acceptance lies: in my longing, in my heartbreak, in the sitting with my son feeling helpless that there’s no way to reach him, in the knowing that even as his mother I am so very limited. Acceptance happens through each moment. It might look and feel different on any given day. It’s not somewhere in the illusionary future, but right here, in the midst of it all -the entire diabolical mess.