Awake since four am, with too many issues running through my mind. Including knowing the day won’t end before eleven pm tonight, minimum. Resting from the insomnia by resting in front of the screen with a bowl of café au lait.
which thread to pick up. Yesterday’s tiny miracle suggests itself. All right, the tiny miracle. Occurred at some point between the morning meeting and the afternoon one. At the morning meeting, six – count ’em, six – qualified and well-intentioned persons (I, one of them) and one hapless parent called in by the school again on the theme of: This is even more serious than all the previous serious meetings about your child. And the hapless parent with a history of a childhood shunted off from one foster family to another, breaks down again in mid-meeting. No, she will not allow her son to see a psychotherapist no no no, enough, leave us alone, stop prying, etc.
The school principal suggests a break and walks outside with the hapless parent while the rest of us wonder how the hell we can attempt something else for the child. The parent comes back, drying her eyes. I talk about how tough it is to be a single parent and how things so often feel like a League against a mother doing her damnedest. The principal picks up the theme, we all agree to let the matter rest. I’ll bring in an old laptop of mine at the next meeting with the boy. See if a keyboard helps with the writing end of his difficulties. We’ll talk again, etc.
At some point between then and the afternoon meeting on a choice cross-section of other complications, the child psychologist contacts a member of the team on another issue. Talk drifts over to this boy and his mother. The mother’s job to contact her, the psychologist responds, this is strict operational procedure yada-yada. Then relents and agrees to put in a call. To which the mother responds by accepting to bring her boy in for a meeting.
On some days, this is the sum total of the miracles or, at least, of what you get to witness of miracles, in terms of progress in a given riddle.
Whatever the clock says on the blog setting, it is now five thirty-three am. The coffee’s finished. The dog snores at my feet. I wouldn’t mind if the opposite were the case.
(and yes, of course, something of this will find its way into fiction as soon as I find the tiny thread on which to move forward.)