Slogging through

Sometimes I’m fine and I can look at everything that’s happened with detached logic.  Sometimes I’m a blubbering mess. 

I miss my boy so much it hurts.  And not just the kid he was, I miss the adult he’ll never be. 

Sometimes I wish it was someone else’s kid.  I’d never wish this pain on anyone, but if I could go back and rearrange things, I’d make it someone else’s kid who did this so I could keep mine and watch from afar.  Yes, I’m that mean. 

In the end it is my kid and I can’t undo it.  So I slog through. 

Sometimes I’m fine.  Sometimes I’m a blubbering mess.