Sometimes I think I can’t do any more wound care.

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I just left those dressings on one more day.

Sometimes I just want to scream when I see a fresh bite wound on those little mutilated fingers.

Sometimes I think I’ll go crazy if I have to change one more diaper.

Sometimes I think I’ll go crazy if I get kicked in the face one more time during a diaper change.

Sometimes I think I’ll go crazy if I have to wash one more load of pee-soaked clothes.

Sometimes I think I might have gone crazy years ago.

Sometimes I desperately wish to be a stay-at-home mom, to be able to wash those clothes and fold them and put them away right away, to be able to go for a jog in the middle of the day, to be able to pick up my kids from school fresh-faced and eager instead of worn out and worried about the rest of the work day.

Sometimes I wish I was one of those moms who took her kids to storytime at the library.

Sometimes I wish I could sit there, patiently encouraging Jackson as he struggles through a beginner book.

Sometimes I wish I knew how to bring the joy of reading to my boy, instead of watching the rift between him and reading grow deeper and darker.

Sometimes I wish I knew how to bring the joy of reading to my girl, instead of wondering what she can see on the page and wondering if she’ll ever be able to enjoy books.

Sometimes I wish I were able to enjoy reading again, losing myself in any book that comes my way instead of worrying about all that needs doing.

Sometimes I think I might be able to enjoy reading again if I didn’t have to work late at night.

Sometimes I really, really hate my schedule.

Sometimes I wish my employer would understand that I’d rather be able to work a normal 40-hour work week but this crazy schedule is my only option other than quitting, and I don’t want to quit because I like my job.

Sometimes I wish I had actively chosen a career—gone to med school or veterinary school or law school—and then I remember I’d be working even more in any of those professions, and it would be even harder, and I probably wouldn’t have as much flexibility to cart Gracie off to the doctor or spend a week in the hospital or do all sorts of therapies or even just do regular child care.

Sometimes I really wish I had a better option for daycare—our in-home daycare lady is nice and loves Grace but she only watches her two days a week, and Grace isn’t exactly the type of kid you can send to a KinderCare.

Sometimes I wish I could send Grace to a KinderCare.

Sometimes I wish I could send Grace to Jackson’s school, or even just be able to choose what school she attends.

Sometimes I am really grateful for the services Gracie gets at her school, and hope it will continue next year at her new school.

Sometimes I wonder how she’ll ever get through school—how she will learn to read or write (type?) or do math or any of that stuff.

Sometimes I wonder if she’ll ever go to college, if she’ll have a job, if she’ll ever live alone, if she’ll get married.

Sometimes, when things are really dark, I wonder if she’ll live.

Sometimes I’m grateful for all the good things—Gracie is amazing and so smart and incredibly persistent, so she will surely be fine. She hasn’t been on antibiotics for almost six months now, despite a finger that’s keeping me worried. She is thriving in school. We know lots of people to ask for help for Jackson. I do have a job, and even though sometimes it is really difficult, I feel very fortunate to be able to keep working despite everything we’ve been through with Gracie. As for the diapers and wound care, well, somehow I get it done, even when it seems impossible. That’s what it’s all about.