“You see, my daughter’s syndrome doesn’t allow you to touch her face or hands. That day, I saw Ivy on the love seat with granny. They both leaned in, foreheads touching, and granny was holding Ivy’s hands and face! Ivy was SMILING and listening to granny quietly speak. ‘You are special. You are good enough. You are different…on purpose.’ No matter the diagnosis or prognosis, I KNEW my Ivy heard granny and understood.”
“I feel sick with worry because I am here, and she is there. Every single moment of every single day I see the potential behind my daughter’s beautiful brown eyes. My biggest fear is that others will not see the same things in her.”
“I knew from the moment I saw this tiny dynamic duo, they were mine – the love at first sight squeezed my heart as I looked into their squishy, brown faces. I was immediately a goner for these kids. We were a force to be reckoned with. I was a mom on a mission, and I was prepared to do anything to seal the deal for our family. Then yet another bomb detonated. My husband Peter fell ill with a vicious terminal disease.”
“I woke up feeling a little off, but brushed it off. I signed my kids into their classes, headed upstairs to find a seat in the auditorium. Then, I felt the shift. ‘This is where I needed to be.’ I had commitments, and I needed to be okay. But heat flooded my body. The beautiful music became an overwhelming noise. I decided to escape. There was no warning, no time to prepare.”
“Yesterday, I failed as a mom. I was late picking the kids up from school, causing my child to cry. Instead of comforting her, I scolded her. I ended the evening making my oldest burst into tears at dinner. I then picked a fight with my husband. This morning, I stopped for coffee before taking my minivan to get fixed, and got this reminder from the barista.”
“A grown man looms behind my 3-year-old daughter. He will poke or tickle her, and she responds by shrinking. ‘Mae.’ My tone cuts through the noise. She does not look at me. ‘Mae.’ I start again. ‘You can tell him no.’ As I say the words, my stepfather leans in closer. His grin taunts me as my daughter tries to escape his hot breath. I repeat myself. She finally peeks up at me. ‘Mama…can you say it?’”
“I realized my issues were bigger than I could handle alone. I reached out for help. I found the therapist to be unprofessional and insensitive. I left the session crying and not wanting to go through that again. It’s extremely difficult opening up to a stranger and telling them the most vulnerable experiences you’ve had in your life. I felt defeated and overwhelmed.”
“My son was attacked. In a violent, malicious manner. As one student repeatedly hit him over and over again, others not only held my son down so the student could hit him, but encouraged the attack. Not one school administrator contacted me on the way to the school.”
“The evening before was normal. He was healthy and engaged. We had kids over for dinner. We all jumped on the giant trampoline. He got bossy with the other kids and started telling everyone they were playing the game wrong. I pulled him aside. I was stern with him. Too stern in hindsight. And I made him cry. It’s one of the last interactions we had, and I’ve beaten myself up for it. I can still see the tears rolling down his face. ‘But you’re not listening to me. No one listens to me.’”
“I remember walking in the house at 4:15 a.m. with the most empty feeling I had ever felt. I knew our son would be waking in a few short hours and I wasn’t ready to face reality so soon. I went to our bathroom, filled up the tub, and sat in a hot bath as I cried the little tears I had left. Then I went to Chase’s closet, pulled out his favorite sweats and a big oversized sweater and crawled into bed with his pillow. The sheets and everything smelled like him, and right then and there, I didn’t want to wake up.”
