By Charissa Bates 
“Sorry, I can’t meet up for coffee. My life has been chaotic,” I say for what feels like the tenth time in a row to my friend. It very well could be the actual tenth time.
Earlier that day, the school had contacted me to let us know one of my children was struggling. Struggles weren’t new, but how they were showing up this time was. The teacher told us everything that’s been going on. I listened, offered suggestions, and then went through the exhaustive list of what we’ve already tried. I hung up the phone and let out a huge exhale—I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath the entire call.
My mind rewinds, cataloging everything we’ve done this school year to support my child: therapy, evaluations, medications, medication changes, and new strategies at home. And yet, they’re still struggling.
The day ticks on, and I tackle what I can. A message to the doctor to confirm the meds are appropriate. An email to the therapist for her suggestions. A stream of thoughts about what still needs doing fills my mind. I say a prayer for calmness, followed by a few more slow breaths to reset myself.
My husband has a quick break, and I unfold everything that was discussed as well as the plan going forward. This isn’t our first challenge to navigate, and it won’t be our last. We agree on the plan—maybe this time, we’ll have figured things out.
My first kiddo walks through the front door, shoulders slumped. I hear a puff of breath escape him. Cautiously, I ask, “How was school?” He immediately begins sharing the stressors he’s been bottling up. We sit, we talk it over, and I gently try to share some wisdom. I watch his tension slowly melt away and silently say a thankful prayer.
My youngest skips into the house and asks me to watch her do cartwheels. I watch, then notice dinner needs to get started. As the water begins to boil, my other kiddo bursts through the door, belongings flying in every direction and landing all over the house.
We spend a good 10 minutes talking about his day at school before I direct him to pick up the scattered items from both the front and back doors. Just as the kids start arguing about someone being in their space, my phone chimes with your text message: Want to get coffee this week?
I do want to. Coffee and conversation sound amazing, but my kids need me right now, just like they did two months ago. Sometimes there’s calm, and coffee will happen. I want to give more to our friendship. I genuinely do, but my kids need me right now.
