
I pushed the plastic swing a little higher as my son squealed in delight. “Higher Mom!” His blonde hair was flying in the breeze as his head bobbled around to see me.
The cool spring air felt warmer with the sun beating down on it. I looked at my other child, Haven, running in the field with my husband. They were trying to get the kite to rise off the ground as it bounced along behind them stubbornly refusing to give up gravity.
It had been a long winter and we were happy to get the kids out of the house at the first sign of spring.
I lifted my boy off the swing and bent down to adjust his little levi pants that were twisted. With my face near his, I caught a glimpse into his excited eyes. It caught me off guard.
I was confused. I had seen those eyes. Scared. Lost. Muddled.
Where was I? I looked around. The park looked familiar, but what town? Haven and her dad joined us and I felt a strange sense of Deja Vu. Like I was watching a movie of this day and not really in it.
My husband looked younger. But wait! This was my ex- husband! What was happening? I must be having a stroke. I tried to say something to him but what could I say? “Why are you here?”
We all piled into the car in what seemed like 1000 times before and headed home. It felt familiar and normal so why was I confused? I decided this must be what it’s like to finally go crazy. As we pulled into the stone paved driveway, it hit me.
This was my Do-Over!
I had wished for this many times in the last few years.
Liam! Oh no! He’s going to be so mad! How do you say you went back to your husband 33 years into the past? This might be a problem.
Last time it happened I was walking into a jail on the edge of town with my new husband Liam.
We were walking down the deserted echoey cinder block hall in the dead of the night. The sense of trepidation was thick as fog as we had come to bail out my firstborn son, Mason. It was a window of opportunity that was rare in this journey we had been on for less than a year.
There was a strange sense of apprehension in the air. This longtime happy destination town now held a strange sense of foreboding. In numbing shock, I stared through the tiny, darkened glass window. Behind that door was stuff seen only on TV: criminals, some hardened and angry, others pale and restless, looked like lost dogs. Others appeared neutral, listless, and indifferent toward their predicaments. All had lost their freedom due to their own poor choices or unfortunate sets of circumstances. The correctional officers stood vigilant, paid to control other human beings who had lost the ability to control themselves.
I had tried so hard to mold my little family into functional, loving, successful humans; yet here we were.
The horror of the legal system had now penetrated the sanctity of my little family.
I wanted a do-over.
I wanted to go back to that little blonde haired boy and warn him somehow. Of all he would face.
As I listened to the bail bondsman’s voice drone on about how drugs had taken over the town, how officers couldn’t keep up with the revolving door, and what a tragedy it was, yet the situation made them a “dang good living.”
I thought, Well, good. I’m glad we can endure the pain and humiliation of our son being arrested for drugs to help you buy some specialty cheese. Now get me out of this nightmare!
This was Mason’s second arrest. Liam and I made the agonizing decision to bail him out and get him into rehab, which he had previously refused. We seized the opportune moment to bargain. I would soon learn how very valuable these windows of opportunity were.
Like the experts had proclaimed for years, most drug users progress through different drug types and ingestion methods due to the need for more and more of a high. My son had said several times through the first year or two of his heavy pill addiction that he would “never use a needle.” When he walked through that heavy steel door wearing a big smile because he was so happy to see us, I expected to feel relief. Instead, I was shocked. I hadn’t seen Mason for nine months. He looked like he had fought through a war zone. Instead of the happy golden blonde curls from 30 years ago, his moppy brown hair lay slumbering over his long eyelashes. At the pig farm, he started smoking pills. Now, apparently, he was using needles.
I couldn’t.
I just couldn’t fathom that this was my life.
But what do you do? Disown-them? Tell me them to get your shit together and call me then? Or as my son was told “ call me when you have all the money and 6 months clean”.
So I swallowed my feelings and let the thoughts of a do-over slide away. After all- I could be given a worse problem if I really was given a Time Machine.

I woke up from the dream of the swing and took a big sigh.
Everyone has their challenges in life. This was my hardest so far and God be willing- my last hardest before I swing into old age.
I got up to face my day. Like millions of mothers spread out across the world. Hidden in their pain. Afraid to tell their story. Afraid to be judged. I vowed that I would change that.
We can’t be embarrassed of our kids struggles or their choices that led them there.
Yes, they are the only ones who can change it but we can be the lighthouse to show them the way out of the darkness.

I had to take care of myself and find my light.
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