“Hate isn’t new,” he calmly stated. “Cameras are new. This has always happened. And it’s always been wrong. But now more people know about it. More people see it happening. It empowers us to work harder at ending it.”
I was advised not to have more children after a high-risk pregnancy resulting in a preemie son. I’m still judged for my decision to have an only child.
I used to invite my friends in to listen to my Michael Jackson album. (And yes…this now sounds like a “back in my day, we used to have to walk 30 miles in the snow UPHILL to get to school…and GAH I feel old.)
He’s become quite the Houdini lately with taking off his diapers—despite them being duck-taped for better security. And his most recent escape was from a diaper full of poop. This is why special needs parenting is emotionally and physically exhausting.
On one particular visit, I became keenly aware of all of things that I think about while I’m waiting in line at Starbucks. There were 35 to be exact.
I know why I’m second best. I know that since I’m the one involved in the daily parenting grind, telling her – make your bed, go brush your teeth, get dressed, STOP jiggling my butt! – I’m the prime target for her frustration and anger. I WANT TO BE THE FAVORITE PARENT!
My hair became impossibly thick. I started getting teased in grade school as the adorable curls morphed into some curls, some shag carpeting.
Some of my best friends are people I’ve never met. I don’t mean that in a “strangers are just friends you haven’t made yet” sort of way. They’re from the internet.
“So is motherhood worth it?” asks my colleague somewhat skeptically from across the cafeteria table.
Whether they are little or big, they take our breath away. When they stumble. When they soar. It never really changes. It never gets easier.
“Hate isn’t new,” he calmly stated. “Cameras are new. This has always happened. And it’s always been wrong. But now more people know about it. More people see it happening. It empowers us to work harder at ending it.”
I was advised not to have more children after a high-risk pregnancy resulting in a preemie son. I’m still judged for my decision to have an only child.
I used to invite my friends in to listen to my Michael Jackson album. (And yes…this now sounds like a “back in my day, we used to have to walk 30 miles in the snow UPHILL to get to school…and GAH I feel old.)
He’s become quite the Houdini lately with taking off his diapers—despite them being duck-taped for better security. And his most recent escape was from a diaper full of poop. This is why special needs parenting is emotionally and physically exhausting.
On one particular visit, I became keenly aware of all of things that I think about while I’m waiting in line at Starbucks. There were 35 to be exact.
I know why I’m second best. I know that since I’m the one involved in the daily parenting grind, telling her – make your bed, go brush your teeth, get dressed, STOP jiggling my butt! – I’m the prime target for her frustration and anger. I WANT TO BE THE FAVORITE PARENT!
My hair became impossibly thick. I started getting teased in grade school as the adorable curls morphed into some curls, some shag carpeting.
Some of my best friends are people I’ve never met. I don’t mean that in a “strangers are just friends you haven’t made yet” sort of way. They’re from the internet.
“So is motherhood worth it?” asks my colleague somewhat skeptically from across the cafeteria table.
Whether they are little or big, they take our breath away. When they stumble. When they soar. It never really changes. It never gets easier.
