To love someone who has been broken is a brave thing to do. We have lived a life most know nothing about. To the broken, love is a scary and volatile concept. Love isn’t sunshine and roses but thorns and monsoons. To the broken, yelling and raised voices are a part of a typical conversation and something to which we are accustomed. But being broken can be beautiful and strong… and you’re capable of being loved.
Then my daughter tells me that tomorrow in school, there will be a lockdown drill and asks me if the alarm will be loud. I freeze.
We need softness in the face of terror, we need kindness in response to hate, and we need love as revolution. We need these tiny drop of some magic healing warmth. We need the opposite of the microaggressions that so many of us deal with daily… and I realize that what we need are microaffections.
13 Reasons Why was problematic when it came to dramatizing suicidal ideation and execution — in all it’s heavy and highly dramatized detail. I want to call out an alternative. A really good alternative and one you may have missed if you’re outside of the U.K. Here’s why My Mad Fat Diary is a much better portrayal of mental illness and suicide…
During this election cycle, I was sexually assaulted by a man that I had told just hours earlier, “I don’t like you. You’re the type that just takes what you want.” Now that type of man is my president-elect. So this is more than losing an election. It’s more than Donald Trump.
It’s that I thought this country was getting better, and it’s a smack in the face to realize that it’s not.
My ten-year-old daughter with Asperger’s syndrome just got her period. When my daughter was diagnosed several years ago as being on the Autism spectrum, I only thought so far as the toddler/elementary school years. Everyday things like getting dressed and playing with other kids were already such challenges, I just couldn’t wrap my head around what would happen when my daughter, you know, becomes a woman.
With the birth of our son we joined the ranks of that undefined, amorphous, limitless group of “special needs parents.” Within the first days of the NICU I knew there would be challenges, but I could not ever imagine the constituency of belonging to such a group. A stat perhaps. A label. A stigma?
Connecticut mandates that all couples with children who are seeking a divorce attend a series of parenting classes (not together, thank GOD.) The classes are intended to offer advice for co-parenting post-divorce. These classes were long. And often boring. And filled with a lot of “Well, duh” information. But I learned a few good tips that I assumed I would never use because I was certain we would never be able to effectively co-parent.
It started when my son decided he wanted cupcakes. I figured we’d make cupcakes and take them to work for our friends. I gave him one of my aprons but it was too big. The next week at the local farmer’s market I spied homemade kid-sized aprons. They had some robots and some flowers, but what really caught my eye was, of course, a Dora apron. It is bright pink and lacy but whatever — that’s not something that would register for Isaac.