“‘Stephen ran away. You need to adopt him,’ my boss emails. My stomach drops. Instead, I buckle him in my Toyota for the next placement. He sobs an aching sound. It was a home he thought he would stay in. He felt affection there. Months later, in another removal, he runs around the living room and ducks behind furniture, refusing to leave. But on this night, he had no fight in him.”
“My daughter and I went to the mall. She was waving at everyone. It prompted an older couple to strike up a conversation. ‘She’s so cute and friendly,’ they told me. ‘How old is she? She’s big for her age!’ Then the inevitable question was asked. I just thought, ‘How do I get myself out of this conversation?’ I wonder what would happen if I just said, ‘My son died,’ then walked away.”
“In the first coherent moments after surgery, I was in a hospital room with my husband by my side. Everyone had kissed me goodbye and returned home. It must have been the drugs, because I was suddenly concerned about a white gift bag sitting on the counter. I motioned for him to bring it to me. The bag contained three gifts: a square, a stone, and a scarf.”
“Someday, I’ll quit using dry shampoo. I’ll dye my hair regularly and take care of my nails. I’ll choose my clothing as a fashion statement instead of knotting my shirt over a stain. I’ll even read grown-up books instead of books about little monsters. But right now isn’t that ‘someday.’ And I’m okay with being mostly mommy.”
“No one is cleaning their house every day. No one is having sex every day. No one has it all together.”
“No one looks twice when a mom says she enjoys ‘mom juice,’ aka wine, after her kids are in bed. But when a mom says she smokes weed, it’s a huge shock. Marijuana has helped me so much, especially when it comes to being a mom. It’s my can of beer. It’s my relaxation time. You can still be a kick ass mom, and smoke weed.”
“Things came to a boiling point. I ran all the way back to my house, flew up the stairs, locked the door, and melted into tears, gasps. The police didn’t help. ‘He hasn’t hurt her yet. We can’t do anything.’ He hadn’t hurt me YET. Imagine my 10-year-old brain trying to process this. How could I feel safe? All of my innocence, comfort went out the window. Every morning, he gazed at me from my bus stop.”
“She was suffering. The nurse wanted to try another medication to help ease her pain. Our daughter had an immediate reaction and stopped breathing. My baby was dying in my living room. Matt was racing home from work. ‘Please never let her suffer this way ever again.’ My heart couldn’t handle watching my baby endure this. Her body was tired. She’s now an angel in heaven.”
“My gynecologists had never touched me anywhere except the obvious pink parts. This exam was different. I felt her palpate the right side of neck. She returned to that one spot 3 times. I was frantic. Then, I let go and let life happen.”
“We’ve gotten: ‘Why didn’t you adopt a black child when so many black children need good homes?’ ‘You stole that baby!’ ‘Why didn’t you let that baby stay with his kind?’ Not once in my mind or in my heart did I feel as if Princeton didn’t belong to me.”
