I had my own Amalah moment last Friday. On the subway, carrying a letter to the DOE proving Bet is now a danger to himself and others without 1:1 supervision, I...froze.
I'm the one who asked for this letter; in fact it was composed right in front of me. "Are you sure this is okay? I can change any of it," the preschool director wrung her hands, typing the phrase violent tendencies. I turned my own hands up, helplessly. "Be careful not to make it sound worse than it is," my mother fretted to me on the phone the night before. "What if they...I don't know, send him to juvenile court?"
He's a goodhearted little boy and he's not going to be that difficult to help and no, I don't want it to sound worse than it is. But I can't allow it to get any worse than it is. He almost did something terrifying last week, and I am not waiting until he actually does.
And yet. You know this is what your child desperately needs - and this is your job, this is the whole reason you're here on earth parenting this child, to get him the help he needs. You know the alternative is far, far worse. Most importantly, you know that it will work. He will be okay someday. If you do this, he will be okay.
And still you sit on the train, tears in your eyes. I can't do this, you think. I can't do this. I can't do this. I just did.