“My youngest is 15 months old, and I wear compression socks. My 7-year-old calls my tummy ‘squishy,’ and I can’t hide the stretch marks. I struggle with hormonal swings and anxiety that made me message two doctors and a nurse friend today. No calendar date or finish line can return anything to how it was before.”
“I was a child learning I would never carry a child. I had the option for treatment. I would be upstairs doing this painful and intrusive act, while my family was desperately pretending I wasn’t. I felt defected and apologetic for not being ‘complete.’”
“‘Well bud, I’m black. My Dad is black and my Mom is white. So, if I am black, you are black. Do you understand?’ He scrunched up his nose again and had this determined look in his eyes. ‘Mom, I’m not black.’ He said it so matter-of-factly and with no room for argument.”
“The last thing I wanted was for a student to end the school year with a D or F. Every time I crossed a student off my list, I’d do a little victory dance in my kitchen. It’s been a mixed bag of emotions.”
“When he outgrew cute, the calls for help increased. Desperate for summer options for a 15-year-old in diapers. Desperate for anything to assist a non-verbal man child. The voices were silent. Or they whispered, ‘Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.’ When he outgrew cute, the walls caved in, and the house became a tomb.”
“When she tried to look at her face, she paused for a while. I will never forget that pause. It was like the air had been sucked out of the room. I turned away. I grieved over the vision of my daughter I had created.”
“The gate separating the patio from the pool was propped wide open. She went straight to the pool. My husband was first to see the horror in her face.”
“These products…these augmentations…these makeup-tricks…aren’t doing what we want them to do. Because what we WANT them to do is make us look 24 again. We’re years away from becoming ‘cute for their age.’ For their age. Our identity is soul-crushingly wrapped up in things that can be taken away from us.”
“I looked at the nurse with tears in my eyes. ‘That little boy is the only one I have.’ His eyes rolled back. The physician started sobbing. I held up my hand to push her away. ‘I need you to come in here. I need you to talk to your son.’ I took Joseph’s hand, looked into his beautiful face, and begged him to stay. ‘He’s going to just wake up. He’s going to wake up, and we’ll go home.'”
“These little traumas are hard to communicate. They remain mostly unseen. But they don’t leave us. We wouldn’t change our kids for anything. We wouldn’t change how they have changed us. But, damn, sometimes we wish we could lighten their loads.”
