The kids are okay.

The year of Tuck’s birth feels a little lost. Each day I got out of bed, drank coffee and cried, stayed in pajamas and pondered whether a mother so sad could raise an emotionally healthy child.

Together we got to know a few monsters by their first name.  We lived through so much misery and collected so many memories that right now, solid ground, feels very sweet.

Solid-er, I guess. I still fall into bed most nights unsure about what needs to be done. Is he okay?
There is love coupled with the responsibility of keeping him alive, the desire for him to grow up paired with the fear for his future. It all feels slightly contradictory.
Is he sad? Is he lonely? Is he bored? 
Can we protect him from physical danger yet simultaneously encourage him to take risks?  Will he control his impulses, think independently, ask for help when he needs it?
Will he be a responsible voter, a kind partner, a capable professional?
Sometimes I let him play video games for too long, and lots of times I don't bother washing his fruit and once in awhile I just nod and say yes and I'm not really listening and have I done permanent damage?

I wonder if suffering can be passed along from one generation to the next, like flexibility or dyslexia, like grace or big brown eyes?
I worry that dimly lit scenes of his dying sister, pale and gaunt, will play out behind his eyes forever, even when he smiles.

I think he's okay.  I think he is happy and confident and thriving.
I imagine him as a man and can almost see that he's followed his heart, but taken his brain with him.
And taken part of his sister, too.