As a Muslim, I didn’t want my kids to decorate her Christmas trees. We argued, it was ugly, we stopped talking.
I was 11 days away from my seventh birthday and taking a bath when my father shot himself in our living room.
I really wish that television shows about hoarding existed when I was a child. I used to sit cross legged amongst the trash and feel so alone.
I'm available for hire, greeting card companies. Also in general. Need money for socks.
As long as I can remember, "leg stuff" as been a topic of conversation and controversy with my mom and me.
I didn't mind living in rural Tennessee until I had two black children.
They blamed me for tearing the family apart by calling 911 that night in August.
Fostering is completely different than adoption, which is completely different than pregnancy. All are wonderful, but different. Remember that.
My momentary shock upon finding out that my room was a camper trailer in the backyard, quickly turned into relief that I would be occupying a completely different living space than the stains and the cocaine.
His cancer had been caused not by smoking, but by HPV that had been lying dormant for decades.
When I wiped, I saw a single white worm on the toilet paper. Like any sane person would do, I freaked out, sobbing hysterically at 5 am.
Even though the alcoholic in my life has been gone for years, the disease still lingers. I’ve locked it out of the house and it sits on the front porch waiting patiently to sneak back in.
Sometimes it really boggles my mind that I am somebody's mother and therefore am culturally expected to nag members of my household to keep our living spaces clean.
Bad news came at us like a runaway freight train. At first, it was a broken leg. Then it was a fractured femur. Then an infection set in. Then it was an amputated leg. From the thigh.
I couldn’t tell you how old I was when I learned to read or when we stopped practicing cursive in school, but I can describe the view from the upper floor of the Columbia-Presbyterian hospital parking garage in almost perfect detail.
It started small. Forgetting words, getting turned around when driving, repeating stories. Initially, it seemed like stress -- and my mom was very good at playing it off.
Being the priest’s kid defined me and my siblings even more so than being the children of a disabled person.