“It comes down to diapers.”
“It comes down to diapers.”
“Your boy took off with the ball Cedar was playing with. You didn’t do what every other parent has done: give the ball back to the child who is different, apologize, and go. This felt genuine, special. You sat down next to Cedar and taught your son to roll the ball back and forth. You saw my little boy loved this so much. Yours was unsure, but you kept showing him how happy mine was. Cedar giggled and clapped. You did, too. I watched in amazement.”
“To this day, I’m still not sure which random stranger named me in that hospital room. I was sent to a hospital for a full screening. They documented all the marks on my body with hours of questioning. I trembled in fear. In a dark hallway, a nurse – who took her job because her husband was also a survivor of child abuse – spoke these words to me. I can still hear her strong yet gentle voice. ‘Annie, the cycle ends with you.’ I finally know now, my parents aren’t going anywhere.”
“He sat on the couch next to me. HE STARTED CRYING! As soon as I stepped on the linoleum, I felt a HUGE gush! A puddle of bright, red blood. His face turned white, his eyes were huge. ‘Has he moved at all today? Could you feel him?!’ I felt my heart shatter. I had one job. All I had to do was keep my baby safe. This can’t be real, it’s a nightmare. ‘Taylor…I’m so sorry.’ We studied him so we wouldn’t forget anything. He was perfect. It actually surprised me.”
“I snap when I should be sensitive. I lecture when you needed a hug. I’m never going to be perfect, but I am always and forever yours.”
“Here we were, both married, raising children, praying, volunteering, and fully engaged in our own lives –– living about 2 miles away from each other. Despite our proximity, we would hardly see each other. We were 44 years old, and made a commitment over a pinky promise. I’d say that’s pretty serious.”
“My teen son recently came out as atheist. All I had to say was, ‘I could not be more proud of the man you are becoming.'”
“Conditions at home reached a fever pitch. My father was laid off again, my grandmother moved in with her hoard, and I became sick. I tried my hardest to suppress that cough, barricaded with my little brother in my room, holding him back as the sounds of my father’s drunken rage filtered from the kitchen. My grandmother turned cold, hateful. ‘You’re old now. You aren’t cute and you have a bad attitude.’ The chaos was too much to bear. So I stopped eating.”
“I was injecting up to a gram of meth a day into my arm. My only concern at that time was my next high. That’s how I dealt with the war. It nearly cost me my life. Something inside me broke. Suddenly, I wanted a purpose. There, I found my redemption.”
“Our kids hit a mental wall, and it is important for us to teach them how to slow down.”