There were books I read to my children multiple times. As in a hundred. I can still recite The Little Engine that Could, Goodnight Moon, and If You Give a Mouse a Cookie without missing a beat. Not exactly poetry, but the sentiments resonated with me.

Perseverance. Slipping into sleep. Repercussions. 

There are television shows that I watched over and over as a child. I Love Lucy. Dick van Dyke. Plus the movies. Sound of Music. The Wizard of Oz. Shirley Temple. 

One of the underlying appeals, I suppose, is that I know how it ends. Maria doesn't become a nun. Dorothy makes it home. The orphan girl is adopted. Of that I can be sure. 

Seeing the uncertainty melt into resolution feels good, especially after a day where completion was not mine to be had.  I am still trying to figure out how to make a stage full of teenagers look like a woodland creatures. The process of helping Ben stay calm is patchy. The hole in the wall on the third floor is still gaping. 

Then there are times when the same circumstances march in, and we get to create a better ending. One of the memories that kept me shallow breathing when Benjamin was in acute care was of my mother. My father committed her to psychiatric hospitals half a dozen times, but I don't think the reunions were quite like when Mary Tyler Moors opens the door for Rob Petri. Mom was furious that her husband had overpowered her manic episode, and probably was not inclined to thank him for the vacation. 

I thought about my father struggling with those decisions, as John and I signed a stack of admission contracts spread over sixteen hours. Dad signed them alone. And the miracle is that Benjamin does not blame us. We are all trying to make it up this steep hill.

He is working with all his might to stay inside the circle of our family.  Today he made it home.