parents
The boundless love a parent has for their child is matched only by their capacity to embarrass them.
What Is a Mother
I was not allowed more than a few years with my mother. I don't remember much, and what I do remember is fuzzy. I remember pizza, ice cream, but having a lot of "time out" as well. I also remember dark nights curled up next to her after having nightmares, and hearing her talk about someday buying the house she had rented out. It was obvious that my mother worked hard. She had a hard life dealing with abusive boyfriends, an underpaying job, and two children. I never understood that at the time, so looking back I wish I had more positive experiences with her.
By Buck Mobbs7 years ago in Families
Growing Up Without a Father
I grew up in a fatherless home. My dad had his "new family" as I called them. He pushed me to the back burner and forgot about me. A tremendous impact that I never want to feel again. Growing up without that dad role has given me so many challenges with guys that I've dealt with over the years.
By Jennifer Rubey7 years ago in Families
Me First, Momma After
This is pretty self-explanatory and something I’ve struggled with since my first child was born. I brought my daughter into this world when I was 21 years old. I was young, I was in a failing relationship, and I honestly had no idea who I was. I hadn’t yet begun to discover the things that made up my character, and I was still emotionally struggling from demons that I couldn’t leave in the past. My priorities were work, how much beer I had in my fridge, and what my plans were for the coming weekend. The second the doctors laied my daughter on my chest, everything for me changed. All of my priorities shifted and everything that I had ever cared about emptied itself from my mind. She became all that I knew and literally my only concern. I didn’t know it yet, but that was mother's instinct and I completely consumed myself in it. My daughter is almost three years old, and I didn’t start to discover that I was doing this all wrong until just this past year.
By Ashleigh Corriveau7 years ago in Families
Family Man
As a child, this man had a soft soul. He spread his talents around with his dedication to love and hard work. This boy had a soft heart and shared his happiness as much as he could. No matter what he went through, his love kept him strong and moving forward. This man I had the privilege to call my dad.
By Sierra Costanzo7 years ago in Families
Mom
I was crouched down over a small shoe box in the garage. It was warm, sweat began to form droplets on my temples like morning dew. It pooled together on my cupid's bow, as my lips sat pursed, before slowly reshaping into a smile. A small laugh escaped my mouth as I reached down for a picture in the box. I noticed the way my hands are veiny like yours, distinctive violets and greens protruding from our olive toned skin. In the picture we were at the beach. Your hands held mine, my arms outstretched as I desperately tried to walk on my own. It was windy, your dark wavy hair floated gently behind your shoulders, pieces danced on your prominent collar bones. They looked like mine. I reached up and felt my hair, it was coarse like yours. Your jean shorts, bikini top, and my toddler body covered most of your stomach, but just below your chest I could see the slight shadow of your ribs. I closed my eyes and I could see myself now, looking in the mirror. I looked like you. In the picture you are looking down at me smiling, our noses are different, but our faces are just alike. Your cheekbones are high, creating a vivid set of lines around your mouth. Your lips are different, but we smile the same way. There are more pictures like this in the box. In one, you are standing next to my dad with your eye brows raised and your wide smile, and in that moment I swear we are the same. But we are not.
By Ciara Dreeszen7 years ago in Families
The Mom Who Is Always Yelling
Today is a bad day. Why am I yelling so much? Did I sleep enough? Does it make me a bad mom? Am I a bad mom...? I yell so much lately that some nights my throat is raw from just trying to get my kids to stop hurting each other, me, or really just to listen. Excuses... that's all I see: my childhood maybe—it was rough, a lot more so than others; maybe it's just who I am—the mean mom who always yells at her kids....
By Kat Peirce7 years ago in Families
They Called It...
Just over three years ago I, for the 1 million-and-tenth time, had to explain to my baby girl how her daddy wasn’t actually coming to get her again. That was the day I decided enough was enough and he wasn’t going to hurt her ever again. Not if I could help it.
By Secret Serenity7 years ago in Families
How Heroin Destroyed My Life
By reading the title I assume you think me doing Heroin destroyed my life? Or why do I capitalize the h in Heroin. Let's start with introducing Heroin. It's a powder, it's white, it's a girl. I've always called her MISS Heroin; because she'll deceive you, she'll lie, she'll get you to steal and con your loved ones. Well, until they're dead; or find their way around MISS Heroin. Sadly my parents did not.
By Destiny Watson7 years ago in Families
Parenting Problems
Walk into any public venue or walk down any public street and you will find any number of people who have an opinion on how you should parent your child. Read a magazine or go online and you will find a ton of people voicing their opinions on how to raise your child. Co-sleeping vs crib sleeping, breast feeding vs bottle feeding, time outs vs taking things away. As a parent these things can be helpful but also aggravating and very confusing. We all want to be the best parent we can be and we all want to do everything completely right by our children and it can be hard to figure out what the right thing to do is.
By Kimberly Essenburg7 years ago in Families
Staying Together for the Kids
I write this story because I am a child from a household that stayed together for the children. Growing up, I can remember never liking my father. Before I get to telling you why, let me tell you the little bit of the history I know of my father's past.
By Audrey Woods7 years ago in Families
Hurt. Abused. Broken.
It all started when I was in the third grade. My dad had a better job offer in a small town in the middle of nowhere. He always worked late or just never came home. That’s when it all started. The long, dark, scary nights. I came home from my first day in third grade at my new school. I was already friends with everyone. That night, I was told by my father’s ex-wife that I was a bad girl and I didn’t deserve anything but the scraps from dinner. She had moved my room to the cold, dark, lonely basement. She tied the door shut with rope so that I couldn’t get out and the cellar door had bricks on it. She’d call me up after everyone finished their dinner (dad wasn’t home) and told me to clean up. I remember time passed and if I was hungry, I had to eat a cold can of peas. I was so skinny, the only way my body knew to protect me was to grow hair. I got sent to school with only an apple and a quarter for milk everyday. I went to school and begged my classmates for just a little bit of food.
By Tabitha Rzeszutko7 years ago in Families