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B is for Bad?

I never imagined I’d be the mom with the “bad” kid. I remember those kids in my classes growing up. I could still tell you their names. They were usually boys that loved being the class clown, always acting out and vying for attention in some way. As a kid, I never gave much thought about their reasons for acting the way they did. Surely their parents just didn’t care or weren’t giving them the necessary attention at home. Now I can say with full confidence that I was entirely wrong because (GULP) that parent is me. It’s an extremely hard pill to swallow being a bit of a perfectionist myself. I remember being pretty good about following the rules...
    I’m sitting at my kitchen counter, thanking God I finally got my two-year-old to nap, and I start to make a list of what I want to do the rest of the afternoon…fold (AND put away) the laundry, figure out the dinner situation, cut out box tops for school, etc. And the question that often lingers in the back of my mind slowly creeps to the forefront: am I wasting my degree? Should I be wearing a suit sitting behind a desk somewhere instead of wearing maternity leggings in my kitchen? To provide a little background, in my junior year of high school I decided that I was going to be a lawyer. It was after I and...

Tired as a Mother…

Tonight, I’m tired... I’m tired of the laundry. I’m tired of "momming." I’m tired of having full responsibility of my children. I’m tired of making sure that everyone’s fed. I’m tired of making sure that everybody’s teeth have been brushed. I’m tired of making sure that everybody has lunch for tomorrow. I’m tired of politics. I’m tired of this pandemic. I’m tired of hurricanes in the gulf. I’m tired of my children falling and getting hurt. I’m tired of bath time. I’m tired of bedtime. I’m tired of reading stories. I’m tired of cleaning the house. I’m tired of watching what I eat. I’m tired of driving everywhere. I’m tired of carpool. I’m tired of waiting for the bus. I’m...
  It's 4:19 am. I didn't call my Grandmother yesterday. I need to set a reminder to do that or something because the only time that I remember is when I can't do it. I also didn't text my friend who is going through a divorce, a friend who I haven't spoken to in weeks, or a friend whose husband is going through some stuff. I meant to. I had good intentions but failed. Again. A quick scroll through Facebook reminds me of all of the people that I need to touch base with. I mentally add them to my long list of people I need to reach out to. I know I will only remember when I am taking a shower or driving. You...
  I volunteer. I do Pilates. I run. Generally speaking, I look like a fairly put together person. I have a decent job. I’m well-spoken. If we met at Java Mama, a BREC park, or an LSU watch party, you’d have no clue that I had been going home to a physically and emotionally abusive relationship for nearly two years. Through countless counseling sessions and conversations with friends and family, I got myself and my daughter out. Recently, on the Betrayal Trauma Recovery podcast, I heard a guest say “an isolated victim is a controlled victim.” I’ve now realized the severely awful times were the times I was isolating myself from others. I was kicked, choked, slapped, called a sl*t, etc....

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