Overwhelm in mothering
It was a stupid can of beans that took me down.
My daughter was born in the water on a sunny morning in September. Hers was my second birth at home, my fourth altogether, and like every other time, the moment I nestled her wrinkly little body in my arms, I was intoxicated with a euphoric mix of relief and adoration.
You Know Better
In 2010, a man named Tom Kane stole $30,000 from me.
I sent it to him willingly in the form of a cashier’s check, a detail around which he was suspiciously adamant. It was a red flag, but I told my gut she was wrong, that she knew nothing about how business worked, that this was the way things were done all the time, and I sealed up the money and mailed it anyway. Instead of making good on his end of our deal, this man vanished with every cent.
When Are You?
Once in awhile, something major happens—the loss of a loved one, the birth of a child, the lay off, the big promotion—nudging you to glance at the clock and check if you’re any closer to someday. You feel a new, even if fleeting, sense of urgency to swipe hold of joy, to be really in it, lest you miss it.
Fishbowl
We were at a Waffle House, probably on the road to or from somewhere, but I don't remember. To the server, I probably looked like your average pre-teen having breakfast with her parents and younger sister. We sat two by two at a four-top by the window. The symmetry was beginning to feel familiar enough, even though I still sometimes felt like I was sinking in the hole my brother left behind when my parents sent him across the country to a boarding school for emotionally troubled teens.
We were a family broken, but we did our best to pretend otherwise as often as possible. At least I did. I didn’t like talking about it. I didn’t like thinking about what was wrong with us.
“So we want to talk to you girls about something,” my Dad said.