Summer’s End and Prodigals

 School started this week.

I’m on the fence about it. I need my time to work, and it’s easier without the grands around, but I, also, dread trying to stay on top of all the demands from school. Things were a lot easier when my kids were little. We’re eight years into raising grandchildren, so one would hope I’d be acclimated by now.

In ways, I am. In other ways, I’m not.

Last year. school was a disaster for my grandson. By constantly trying to stay on top of his daily classes, he came out with fantastic grades, but his transition to middle school really hurt. Really. Hurt. I have never been or wanted to be a helicopter parent. Last year, it felt like I had to be.

He and his sister are neurodiverse. That’s a nice way to say we have an alphabet soup of diagnoses that are common in children of addicts.

• Anxiety
• OCD
• ADHD-C
• Autism

My grandson is all of the above. His sister only experiences Anxiety and ADHD-C. Only. LOL. Her ADHD presents differently than his, so she’s found ways to focus. We’re still trying to find that balance with him.

The hard part is waiting to see where my grandson’s needs fall this year. Last year, for the first time in raising all of our children, I found myself at odds with teachers. He’s smart. Super smart, so they weren’t concerned when his grades didn’t reflect what we knew he could do. They didn’t worry about delayed assignments until, of course, they appeared on the gradebook. I have the parent website flagged to alert me to not handed in assignments or grades below a certain level, but, often, the grades didn’t appear until way too late to do anything. The assignments were weeks if not over a month old. Try getting a kid who is already stressed from a day at school to catch up on a boatload of assignments. Oh, and add to the fun that often he didn’t know what the assignment was or didn’t have the proper materials at home to do them.

So, we’re on day three of school. I have laryngitis because of the disaster that was the last few weeks of our summer–no AC for a week meaning allergies took a heavy hit, flat tires, and paint dust from a painter painting our house. In other words, I can’t really talk with his teachers. I did a lot of prep work at the end of last school year with the principal and assistant principal. They listened. We’ll see where it takes us. He appears to have great teachers, so I pray that this year will be less stressful.

On other points, I know I haven’t posted here in a long time. Beyond the struggles with his school last year, there’s been a lot to deal with. We lost my father-in-law over the summer after a long illness. It’s hard to believe he’s gone, and it really hasn’t hit home with me yet.

Then there’s our daughter, the grand’s mom. Between the chaos of the last school year and so many uncertainties about her, I chose not to post updates. There’s a fine line of privacy and confidentiality that I try to navigate each time I do.

I won’t rehash everything, but here’s where things stand.

She’s in jail again. She’s alive. That says a lot.

On December 30, I felt a sudden separation. Parents often have a connection to their children. You don’t notice it until it disappears. When it disappeared that day, I felt a void. A hole.

I struggled with the absence, convinced she had died. We had not heard from our daughter for six months. She’d missed our grandson’s birthday, the start of school, Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. It wasn’t like her to miss ALL of these. In the eight years we’ve had the grands, she’s missed contacting us for one or two of these events, but never all of them. Even my granddaughter admitted to me one night that she feared her mother was dead in a ditch somewhere.

Time went on and she missed her daughter’s birthday, too.

Nine months without a word, and then she surfaced. Of course, she was in jail. Since then, she’s gotten out only to get arrested again. She’s begging me to bring the kids to see her, but I don’t want to do it. Heartless? Maybe. But I don’t know if it’s the smart thing to do.

When I thought she was dead, I prayed that if she was alive, God would show me how to help her get straight. I vowed I would do what it takes to help her. Then the reality of her situation came back to the forefront. Before they released her, I encouraged her to do the right thing.

She made promises. Unfortunately, her promises mean nothing to me or her kids. We learned that a long time ago. She didn’t go to the halfway house where she’d have a bed, food, and job. She disappeared. When she resurfaced, she told me a crazy story that didn’t add up. Then she got arrested again.

I can’t help her. She has to try to help herself first.

I’ve come to realize that my daughter is not a prodigal. Prodigals accept, admit, and own their mistakes. They don’t expect grand gestures or money. They’re humble. She is not any of this.

I can’t help her. Only God can.

I’ll end with this one point that I shared with my ladies Bible class a few weeks ago:

Don’t feel sorry for me. I’m not mourning, hurting, or worrying about this every day. Life’s too short. I laugh and try to find joy each day. I am overwhelmed at times and need a break, but I don’t need pity.

Image courtesy of freeimages.com by @asifthebest