In my motherhood journey, like all parenting journeys, there is a moment I am pained to speak about. I was merging onto the freeway, taking my daughter to karate, when chunks of the sky started falling. That’s when the robocall call came through the car’s Bluetooth from the King County Jail, then paused for my son’s recorded voice speaking his name, then continued to inform me of the 800 number I had to call to bank time with a private phone service so I could speak to my incarcerated son the next time they allowed him to call.
That moment is a splinter I can’t grasp, It is like a canker sore that hurts more when I press it with my tongue and yet I continue to press, to see if it still hurts. It does. Then it fades, and I press again. Still there.
The panic I felt, the complete lack of control, the ensuing lessons I learned about the Seattle court system, my son and myself led to, of all things, Grace. All parenting concerns become meaningless after your son has been arrested, in another state. Really the only thing left to be concerned about are the parenting biggies: sickness and death. When you let everything else go, you get Grace.
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