The other day my littlest asked about her first mommy. Every time this happens I am gutted. It doesn't get easier for me but I'm glad she is comfortable talking about it. Hopefully opening the door to communication now will make it easier later down the road. It has never been a secret. We have pictures of adoption days hung up in the house. We have books about adoption on our shelves. Our oldest sons were 10 and 11 when they were adopted so they very much remember life before adoption. My girl is sunny, silly, and in many ways more mature than her four years on earth should allow her to be. To be sure she is every bit of a silly little girl but she sometimes asks me questions that I know if I blow off will just come back to me later, probably in public when changing the subject becomes more of a song and dance routine. So we have a policy of just trying to, in age appropriate language answer the question. When she asks me to tell her about why she couldn't live with her &
Hope was a thing with feathers Perched deep within my heart She sang a tune a bit off-key A mine canary’s art Her brave porcelain composure Wafted down amid the gloom Her voice shoving out the darkness Like a lantern in a tomb But the years advanced with violence And her fragile body broke When the darkness grew in size Cutting air off like thick smoke But she never perished, no Just reduced down to an ember That would not give up or go out Growing cold in deep December As she started to recover She grew keratinous scales And her bones became less brittle And her song was more like wails She eventually found her perch again Swinging gently in the soul But the treatment poor hope had received Made obvious its toll Instead of buoyant flutters Trilling chirps and happy song She was trembling and whimpering Too afraid to sing for long No more cheerful blue adornment Just dark eyes now filled with fear She could only now imagine The next trauma creeping near As she wept her gilded
Look. This is not my normal content. It really isn't. And I don't want to be "that" person about all this but honestly, I can't bite my tongue, or press my frustration down any further or I will end up either tongueless or exploded. Okay? I need you to just listen. Got it? Got it. Toxic Masculinity: What you seem to think it means: Masculinity=Men. Men=bad. All men are bad ewww men. If I see one more "Masculinity isn't toxic" post, I will scream. Because intentionally or not that is completely missing the point. What it actually means (not according to the "woke" crowd, we'll get there later)but according to the actual dictionary : a cultural concept of manliness that glorifies stoicism, strength, virility, and dominance, and that is socially maladaptive or harmful to mental health: Men and women both suffer when toxic masculinity perpetuates expectations that are restrictive and traumatizing. Examples include but are not limited
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