The perinatologist started talking about missing fingers. About how she sees this at the hospital once or twice a year. How there’s nothing else wrong with her but they want to refer me for more scans at another hospital.
Growing up I never thought I would marry or have kids. Not because I didn’t want that life, but I was convinced I would never find someone… Read more “Doing the Best I Can Do”
Because then at some level, I’m admitting she is and will always be different.
When I became pregnant at 40, my husband and I were stunned. We already had two kids, we were delightfully done with poopy diapers and naptime, and,… Read more “My “Do-Over” is Done”
It may seem like a small thing. Jumping into a crowded pool. But to me is was huge. All of me exposed. Cellulite and all. For everyone to see. Including the one person there who mattered: my daughter. She was the one that mattered. I don’t know why it took me so long to realize this.
My once tight, tiny body now has stretch marks and loose skin that covers my stomach and hangs where the umbilical hernia once poked through. And, since I am not only a mother— I am also a wife and a woman—naturally, I want to look attractive and sexy on this vacation.
Anyone who knows me well knows that I hate my birthday. I do not know why I hate it, but I do. Even though I am very ok with not celebrating, people still insist on asking me what I want for gifts. This year, for my 30th birthday, I know exactly what I DON’T want. I do not want anyone to ask me these 10 things ever again…
You know that often heard sentiment, “Marry your best friend”? or “My spouse is my best friend”? I hate those sayings. Is your spouse really your best friend? Really? Because mine is certainly NOT my best friend.
Within about 30 seconds of finding this out I was both sending texts and shouting, “yeah, I’m divorced!” and tears were streaming down my face. There was such a cacophony of emotion that I didn’t even know what to do with myself. Laugh or cry. Write or talk. Scream with joy or sadness.
Three years in a nursing home is endless. At first, she talked of going home. She knew me and my brothers. She enjoyed my children. She paced the corridors. Later, she stopped recalling names but still recognized my face. Then, her speech declined.