Foster Dad Quotes

I used to belong to a family unit, with a foster mom and dad and my little sister, Bean, but that's over and I don't want to talk about what happened , or how unfair it was. Not yet. The less said about that the better, because if there's one thing I learned from Ryter it's that you can't always be looking backward or something will hit you from the front.

Pink Balloons My name is Olivia King I am five years old My mother bought me a balloon. I remember the day she walked through the front door with it. The curly hot pink ribbon trickling down her arm, wrapped around her wrist . She was smiling at me as she untied the ribbon and wrapped it around my hand. "Here Livie, I bought this for you." She called me Livie. I was so happy . I'd never had a balloon before. I mean, I always saw balloon wrapped around other kids wrist in the parking lot of Wal-Mart , but I never dreamed I would have my very own. My very own pink balloon. I was excited! So ecstatic! So thrilled! i couldn't believe my mother bought me something! She'd never bought me anything before! I played with it for hours . It was full of helium and it danced and swayed and floated as I drug it around from room to room with me, thinking of places to take it. Thinking of places the balloon had never been before. I took it in the bathroom , the closet , the laundry room , the kitchen , the living room . I wanted my new best friend to see everything I saw! I took it to my mother's bedroom! My mothers Bedroom? Where I wasn't supposed to be? With my pink balloon... I covered my ears as she screamed at me, wiping the evidence off her nose! She slapped me across the face as she told me how bad I was! How much I misbehaved! How I never listened! She shoved me into the hallways and slammed the door, locking my pink balloon inside with her. I wanted him back! He was my best friend! Not her! The pink ribbon was still tied around my wrist so I pulled and pulled , trying to get my new best friend away from her. And it popped. My name is Eddie. I'm seventeen years old. My birthday is next week. I'll be big One-Eight. My foster dad is buying me these boots I've been wanting. I'm sure my friends will take me out to eat. My boyfriend will buy me a gift, maybe even take me to a movie. I'll even get a nice little card from my foster care worker, wishing me a happy eighteenth birthday, informing me I've aged out of the system. I'll have a good time. I know I will. But there's one thing I know for sure I better not get any shitty ass pink balloons!

Whether our caretaker was our mom, dad, uncle, aunt, grandparent, foster parent, or sibling, our blueprint of what a relationship is supposed to look like is drafted by what we observed from our caretaker’s relationship. If our caretaker took their significant other back multiple times, made excuses for their actions, helped them battle demons, turned a blind eye to their infidelity, or moved from one relationship to the next, that is what we know. Their behavior becomes our very own model of what a relationship is supposed to look like and determines what we will expect from our own partners.

He treats the person as if they were fully whole. We become what others expect us to be. Dad expected me to get better and even assumed I would have something helpful to say. Funny how we rise and fall to the assumptions of others.

We were all here, and she came to see you, so I’m not sure what she really wanted to say to you, but you know Dad. He took her under his wing and had her stay for

SOPHIE WASN’T SURE HOW LONG she sat there staring blankly at her empty doorway. Could’ve been minutes. Could’ve been hours. It didn’t matter. No amount of time was going to quiet the chaos in her head. All it did was raise a whole lot of terrifying questions. Because even if Ro was right about Keefe’s feelings—and Sophie decided she wanted to see what would happen—this was so much bigger than just the two of them. Like… What would Grady and Edaline think? Sophie still didn’t know if she was actually allowed to date—much less date That Boy. And even if she was, there would surely be all kinds of annoying new rules and restrictions to deal with. Plus, Edaline would probably follow them around with a sappy, embarrassing smile, and Grady would make them sit through a series of horrifying Dad Talks. And what would her friends say when they found out? There’d been a time when Sophie had wondered if Biana had a crush on Keefe—and even though it seemed like Biana had gotten over it… what if she hadn’t? Better question: How would Fitz react? Keefe was Fitz’s best friend—and Fitz’s temper could be… challenging. The possibilities for drama were endless. Sophie’s insides twisted into knots on top of knots as she imagined the awkward conversations. And the stares. And the gossip. There would be So. Much. Gossip. She wanted to hide just thinking about it—and Keefe would probably love the attention. Did that prove they weren’t compatible? Or was she just looking for an excuse because she was scared? And why was she so scared? Keefe would honestly be… … … …a really awesome boyfriend. He was thoughtful. And supportive. And he could be incredibly sweet—when he was actually being serious instead of joking around with everybody. Though… maybe some of his jokes with her hadn’t just been teasing. Had some of it also been… flirting? If Ro were still there, she probably would’ve been nodding and shouting about the Great Foster Oblivion. And maybe she was right. Maybe Sophie had been too insecure to let herself see what was right in front of her. Or too distracted by her crush on Fitz. The last thought made her inner knots twist so much tighter. She’d liked Fitz for so long that she’d never even thought about liking someone else—and she was still trying to get over all of that. But… Did she want to risk missing out on something that might be… really great? Keefe’s face filled her mind, flashing his trademark smirk.

A dad standing up near the stands' top with a Toshiba viewfinder to his eye takes a tomahawking baton directly in the groin and falls forward onto somebody eating a Funnel Cake, and they take out good bits of several rows below them, and there's an extended halt to the action, during which I decamp--steering clear of the sixteen-year-olds on the basketball court--and as I clear the last row yet another baton comes wharp-wharping cruelly over my shoulder, caroming viciously off big R.'s inflated thigh.

A father is not to act harshly in word or deed toward his children, goad them to frustration and anger, discourage or demean them, neglect them, or harm them in any way. He is instead to be a blessing from the Lord to his children by taking responsibility to raise them rather than leaving it to the mother and various institutions, such as schools, churches, foster care systems, adoption agencies, and prisons. In short, fathers are supposed to be Pastor Dad, actively involved in the development of every aspect of their children’s growth with love, humility, and wisdom.

[WAIT—IT WON’T LET ME REDACT THESE LITTLE SUBHEADING THINGS? THAT’S SUPER ANNOYING!] [FINE, I’LL JUST GIVE YOU MY SUMMARY.] [SO, WHOEVER WROTE THIS WAS ALL BLAH-BLAH-BLAH-STELLARLUNE-SOMETHING-SOMETHING-LEGACY. BUT SERIOUSLY, NO ONE WANTS TO READ ABOUT THE CREEPY STUFF MY MOM DID BEFORE SHE GOT PREGNANT WITH ME! (AND WE’RE ALL SUPER SICK OF HEARING ABOUT MY “LEGACY,” AMIRITE?) SO, LET’S JUST LEAVE IT AT THIS: MY MOM IS EVIL. SHE THINKS SHE’S WAY SMARTER THAN SHE IS. AND NOTHING SHE DID IS GOING TO AFFECT MY GENERAL AWESOMENESS, OKAY?] A PHOTOGRAPHIC MEMORY: [WOW, HOW DID YOU COME UP WITH SUCH A CLEVER TITLE?!] [AND YEAH, I HAVE A PHOTOGRAPHIC MEMORY. NOT SURE WHY ANYONE CARES. BUT IT DOES COME IN HANDY DURING MIDTERMS AND FINALS.] AHEAD OF THE GAME: [BASICALLY: I’M A GENIUS. I SKIPPED LEVEL ONE AT FOXFIRE. YES, YOU SHOULD BE IMPRESSED.] UNREASONABLY HIGH STANDARDS: [GOTTA ADMIT, I WAS TEMPTED TO LEAVE THIS ONE ALONE, SINCE WHOEVER WROTE IT ACTUALLY GOT THINGS PRETTY MUCH RIGHT. I GUESS EVEN THE COUNCIL KNOWS MY DAD’S A JERK WHO FREAKS OUT ALL THE TIME BECAUSE I’M NOT A LITTLE MINI-HIM. WHO KNEW?] A POWERFUL EMPATH: [UGH, THAT’S THE BEST YOU COULD DO FOR THIS SUBHEADING???] [HOW ABOUT “LORD OF THE FEELS”? OR “TRUST THE EMPATH”! OR “HE KNOWS WHAT YOU’RE FEELING—AND YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF”?] [OOO! I’VE GOT IT! “HE KNOWS FOSTER BETTER THAN YOU DO! BETTER THAN SHE EVEN KNOWS HERSELF!”] [THOUGH… KEEPING IT REAL? THE FOSTER OBLIVION CAN BE KINDA NOT COOL SOMETIMES.] THE HEART OF THE MATTER: [I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU GUYS NAMED A SECTION OF MY FILE AFTER MY FATHER’S SUPER-BORING BOOK—AND THEN RAMBLED ON FOR TWO PAGES ABOUT HIS SUPER-BORING THEORY!!!!!] [YOU DON’T NEED TWO PAGES ON IT. YOU DON’T EVEN NEED TWO SENTENCES. HERE’S ALLLLLL YOU NEED TO KNOW—BESIDES THE FACT THAT HE’S TOTALLY NOT THE FIRST PERSON TO COME UP WITH THIS (JUST THE ONE WHO LOVES TO TAKE CREDIT): OUR HEADS AND OUR HEARTS SOMETIMES FEEL DIFFERENT EMOTIONS, AND WHAT’S IN OUR HEARTS IS PROBABLY STRONGER.] [THAT’S IT!] [WELL… OKAY… I GUESS HE ALSO GOES ON A BIT ABOUT HOW EMPATHS PROBABLY ONLY READ THE EMOTIONS FROM THE HEAD.] [AND THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT HEART EMOTIONS BEING PURER BECAUSE NO ONE CAN CONTROL THEM.] [BUT THAT’S IT.] [AND DON’T TELL LORD BORINGPANTS I READ HIS DUMB BOOK! I MOSTLY SKIMMED.] PRANKSTER AND TROUBLEMAKER: [100 PERCENT ACCURATE. ALSO, I’M LEAVING YOUR LITTLE ATTACHED DETENTION RECORD BECAUSE IT’S THE GREATEST THING I’VE EVER SEEN IN MY LIFE!!!!]

You matter. You belong. You are loved. You are seen. You are chosen. You are a gift. You are not alone. You are enough. You are heard. You are brave. You are special. You are known.

The sound that came from her wasn’t like any sound she’d made before. Not even when her parents died. Not even when her first foster home refused to keep her. Not even when her fourth foster dad beat her. Not even when Gerald scheduled when she could blow her nose. Not even when Richard threw her out. The sound contained every hurt and fear and crushing disappointment she’d ever had—all rolled into one screeching rejection of pain. The sound she made was the sound of a woman who had no strength left. She couldn’t fight anymore.

Lord Cassius cleared his throat. “Well. My son may like to pretend he’s above everything. But I hope you won’t hold his laziness against him, Miss Foster. Or his sloppiness. I know how much he values your friendship.” “Keep it up, Dad, and Foster’s going to get jealous of all the sweet things you say about me. Not everyone gets to be so lucky, after all!

For a father what greater gift is there than a daughter's heart? Dads, we hold the key to all its complexities. So love them in a way that teaches self respect, confidence, compassion and forgiveness. If we show them now how to be loved and cherished their chances of fostering healthy relationships in the future dramatically increase. Don't fail at this. The repercussions will last for generations. ~Jason Versey

After another second had passed I added, “But you’re pretty, pretty,” and as soon as I said it I thought, “Pretty, pretty? John, you’re an idiot.” But she squeezed my hand and when I looked at her I saw her entire lovely face was aglow with a wonderful smile, the kind of smile you get when you have won something. “Why do you rub your fingers together all the time?” she asked me, and I felt the breath leave my body and gasped for air. She had seen me do my crazy finger thing, my affliction. I clenched my teeth while I searched for a long, exaggerated lie to tell her about why I did what I did. I didn’t want to be the crazy kid with tics, I wanted to be James Bond 007, so slick ice avoided me. “It’s okay,” she said. “I bite my nails, see?” and she showed me the backs of her hands. Her finger nails were painted a color I later learned was puce. “My Dad, he blinks all the time, he doesn’t know why either,” she continued. She looked down her feet and said, “I shouldn’t have asked you that. I’m really nervous and I say stupid things when I’m nervous. I’m a girl and this is my first date, and for girls this really is a very big deal.” I understood completely. I was so nervous I couldn’t feel my toes, so I started moving them up and down to make sure they were still there. “It’s all right,” I said. “I don’t know why I do that with my fingers; it’s a thing I do.” “Well, you’re really cute when you do it,” she said. “I know,” I said, and I don’t know why I said it, but I did.

Most of us raise our children based on our gut reactions. But how do we know whether such responses are trustworthy or just the result of bad lasagna? Actually, adult “gut reactions” are the results of childhood responses to family emotions and interactions. Therefore, “gut feel” is more valid if we had a happy childhood and presently have peaceful and rewarding relationships at home and elsewhere. On the other hand, if we react to our childhood by saying, “I sure want to do things differently with my kid than my mom and dad did with me,” then our gut reactions will probably be untrustworthy and faulty.

asked the same thing, especially since Randi was waking me up all the time. My dad said they needed to realize it wasn’t the dark they were afraid of but the thoughts in their heads. He said once they learned that, they could try to find ways to get over their fears.

I know, right?” Angelina says. “I don’t even think of her as being deaf. I’ve always thought of her as just being Elena. She was born that way and Mom and Dad raised her—raised all of us—to just see that as a trait, like hair color. Something that didn’t define her or us.

The thing is that I believe you,” she said finally. “And I didn’t come here to give you a free pass for what you did. You fucked up. But,” and there was a meager but merciful tenderness in her brown eyes then, “my suspicion is that you’ve been feeling pretty alone. And sometimes the punishment is a lot worse than the crime and—well, my dad’s a lawyer.” Her lips betrayed something close to a smile. “So I’m biased towards justice. And I just wanted to tell you that.

No one moved. Because here, inside this house, in this kitchen, was our party. Mom and Dad. Griffin and Winn. Knox and Memphis. Foster and Talia. Jasper and Eloise. Vance and Lyla. Vera and me. Some of us hadn’t started with the last name Eden. Some of us had changed it with marriage. But every person in this house claimed it. We were the Edens.

Denny thought our parents needed a combination of material goods and temperamental changes before he could return home. “If Dad buys Ma a car, then she’ll love him, and they’ll get back together and she won’t be all crazy anymore,” he said. For years he held out the possibility that those things would happen and all would change. “If we had more things, like stoves and cars,” he told me at night in our bedroom, “and Ma wasn’t like she is, we could go home.

LOVE AND LOGIC TIP 8 What They See Is What They Learn I (Jim) spent my childhood on the wrong side of the tracks in a trailer in industrial Denver. When my family scraped enough money together, we bought a little garage to live in while my dad built a house on the property.              Dad worked a morning shift downtown and rode the streetcar to work, and then when he returned at 2:00 p.m. every day, he picked up his hammer and saw and built a house. It took seven years. As I watched him work, I thought, Wow! He gets to do all the fun stuff: mix the concrete, lay the bricks, put on the shingles, hammer nails, saw wood. I watched it all day, every day.              At the end of the day, when my dad knocked off, he invariably said, “Jim, clean up this mess.” So I would roll out the wheelbarrow, pick up a shovel and a rake, and clean up the mess. At the same time, Dad would explain to me that people have to learn to clean up after themselves. They need to finish and put the tools away.              When my dad noticed that I left my own stuff lying around, he complained, “Why don’t you ever pick up your stuff, Jim? There’s your bike on the sidewalk, and your tools are all over the place. When you go to look for a tool, you won’t know where it is.” I, of course, was learning all about cleaning up. I was learning that adults don’t clean up after themselves.              Had my father modeled cleaning up after himself — saying in the process, “I feel good now that the day’s work is finished, but I’ll feel better when I clean up this mess and put all the tools in the right places” — he would have developed a son who liked to clean up his own messes. As it is, my garage is a mess to this very day.

My dad works for MMM; that stands for Movie Makeup and Monsters. Yep! He helps create all the monster and make-up stuff in the movies.

Affirming words from moms and dads are like light switches. Speak a word of affirmation at the right moment in a child's life and it's like lighting up a whole roomful of possibilities.

Your dad said you guys got into a fight.” Which was like saying that Voldemort and Harry Potter had strong words with each other.

he leaned down and pressed his face to my belly. "You're having my baby," he announced against my skin. I felt my eyes well up and tears drip down my face. finally. He'd finally said it. "Sure am," I replied, my hoarse voice belying the nonchalance of my words. "I'm going to do my best, okay?" he said nervously. "I promise. I'll be a good dad to him." "You're already a good dad." But to this baby," he replied, lifting his face and pressing his hand to my belly. "I'm going to be a good dad to this baby." "I never doubted that." "I did," he confessed, his head rising to shamefully meet my eyes. The truth of his words hit me like a ton of bricks, and I finally understood why he'd ignored the proof of our child for so long. I nodded once, and he nodded back, as if, without words, we were making a pact then and there to take care of this baby we hadn't planned for or wanted.

Her eyes meet mine. “What exactly do you want, Rider?” My throat feels tight. I take a breath. For some crazy reason, I feel like I’m trying to throw for a touchdown. “Just… I need us to be friends again. I miss you, Gabby, and I regret how I treated you. And with everything with Poppy, I’m being reminded of how amazing you are.” I shrug. “I miss our friendship. Don’t you?” My heart feels like it’s gonna beat out of my chest with that confession. “And that’s all you want?” she asks warily. “Friendship?” Yes. No. Fuck, I don’t know. “That’s all I have time for right now.” Do I miss our friendship? Absolutely. Do I want to fuck her until I can’t walk anymore? Definitely. Can I handle anything beyond sex right now while I juggle all the other shit in my life? Probably not. So yeah, I guess I’d better keep my damn hands to myself. “And you’re not going to ghost me again?” she asks. The vulnerability in her voice kills me, and I reach for her hand again. “Because it sucked to open up to you about being in foster care only for you to disappear on me.” I close my eyes. Christ. No wonder she thinks I’m a douchebag. “I promise I won’t disappear again. You’re officially stuck with me now.

I’m okay. I usually try to forget all of that stuff, but with Poppy being in this situation, I felt I had to speak up, you know?” “You did the right thing,” Bree says. “Those dumbasses will thank you someday.” Rider coughs dramatically, and Bree smirks. “Yeah, you heard me right back there.” I glance behind me and see Rider’s lips tugging up. Bree nudges me. “How’d you end up doing so well in school given everything you went through? Going through foster care? Not having parents?” “I kept to myself mostly.” I shrug. “School and studying were always safe. Books don’t level you with a backhand to the face or a kick to the ribs.” When I see the horrified look on her face, I cringe. “Bree, I survived. A lot of other kids have it worse. Which is why I’m really glad we’re protecting Poppy.” She stops to hug me, and I smile. I’ve had so few hugs in my life, I forgot how good they feel. She sniffles and waves her hand at me. “Ignore me. I’m not crying.” Over her shoulder, I catch Rider’s fierce expression, but I don’t want his sympathy. I don’t need anybody’s sympathy.

Gabs, can we talk a second?” He clears his throat. Nothing good ever follows that statement. I brace myself for what’s sure to be an awkward conversation. “I just want to apologize for our… misunderstanding freshman year.” I’m silent for a moment, but the rush of anger that spikes my pulse has me responding before I think better of it. “You’d call it a misunderstanding, huh?” I roll my eyes. “Funny, I didn’t think I misunderstood anything, but if you want to mansplain it to me now, go for it.” Why make this easy for him? It’s always been difficult for me to make friends, but for some reason, Rider slipped through my defenses. I was assigned to tutor him in English. I remember meeting him in the library, and the shy smile he gave me. He was embarrassed to need help. It was the most endearing thing I’d ever seen, and I swear when he leveled me with those big gray eyes, the ground fell out beneath me. I’m a practical girl, but foster care made me cynical, and ending up with my aunt did nothing to help my outlook on life. But Rider was funny and sweet, not to mention ridiculously good-looking, and I went over faster than a felled log in a forest. This was before he was the golden boy of the football team. When he was just this guy Rider from some speck-of-dust small Texas town like me. Even though he rode the bench, I went to all of his games, and we’d grab pizza afterward and talk until late in the night. Although he didn’t outright say it, I knew he had a rough home life. He mentioned that his father was an ass. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and make it better. And I thought I meant something to him. That what we had was special. Until he became the starting quarterback.

Hurting people do not deserve judgment. They need understanding. They need patience. They need love. They need grace.

I'm sitting here thankful that I met her, but I know that today she'll leave and I'll be here and that'll be it. But just like with Dad, I try and focus on the good memories and keep the gratitude rather than mourn the loss.

I need my Foster back—the real one, who bosses me around and is way too much fun to tease.” “Awwwwww, is anyone else chanting Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! in their heads right now?” Ro asked. “Just you,” Sandor said through a sigh. Keefe stepped back, scowling at both bodyguards before telling his dad.

My name is Olivia King I am five years old. My mother bought me a balloon. I remember the day she walked through the front door with it. The curly hot-pink ribbon trickling down her arm, wrapped around her wrist. She was smiling at me as she untied the ribbon and wrapped it around my hand. “Here, Livie, I bought this for you.” She called me Livie. I was so happy. I’d never had a balloon before. I mean, I always saw balloons wrapped around other kids’ wrists in the parking lot of Walmart, but I never dreamed I would have my very own. My very own pink balloon. I was so excited! So ecstatic! So thrilled! I couldn’t believe my mother bought me something! She’d never bought me anything before! I played with it for hours. It was full of helium, and it danced and swayed and floated as I pulled it around from room to room with me, thinking of places to take it. Thinking of places the balloon had never been before. I took it into the bathroom, the closet, the laundry room, the kitchen, the living room. I wanted my new best friend to see everything I saw! I took it to my mother’s bedroom! My mother’s Bedroom? Where I wasn’t supposed to be? With my pink balloon… I covered my ears as she screamed at me, wiping the evidence off of her nose. She slapped me across the face and reminded me of how bad I was! How much I misbehaved! How I never listened! She shoved me into the hallway and slammed the door, locking my pink balloon inside with her. I wanted him back! He was my best friend! Not hers! The pink ribbon was still tied around my wrist so I pulled and pulled, trying to get my new best friend away from her. And it popped. My name is Eddie. I’m seventeen years old. My birthday is next week. I’ll be the big One-Eight. My foster dad is buying me these boots I’ve been wanting. I’m sure my friends will take me out to eat. My boyfriend will buy me a gift, maybe even take me to a movie. I’ll even get a nice little card from my foster-care worker, wishing me a happy eighteenth birthday, informing me I’ve aged out of the system. I’ll have a good time. I know I will. But there’s one thing I know for sure. I better not get any shitty-ass pink balloons!

Dear Wildest Dreams, Although I am trapped in sadness and sorrow, you are one of my favorite thoughts. You give me faith to dream. I imagine I am falling, but you catch me and cover me in your bed of flowers. You smell so sweet. You are so loving. When I think about you, no harm can come to me. You protect me from my quiet thoughts, and if someone tries to hurt me, you will pierce them with your thorns and coil them up in your invasive vines. Dear Wildest Dreams, this moment, right here and right now, is perfect. You are a safe place. I feel so calm when I am in your presence. I am so happy here, please stay. In my wildest dreams, I have a family who cares. We do the simplest things, such as go on family walks while I hold hands with my mom, dad, and Kace. We have dinner at the table, and my parents asked me about my day. I have my own room, and it is beautiful! I have a real bed and many books! I have fresh water to drink. I can soak in the bathtub, play with bubbles, and just relax. I have the perfect simple life. Dear Wildest Dreams, thank you for this moment. You made my day.

He called after me, “How old am I, Maya?” I turned. “How the hell should I know? Whatever you’ve told the school, I’m sure it’s a lie anyway.” “I’m sixteen, just like you. Or like you will be tomorrow, from what I heard. My birthday was last month.” “Congratulations.” I started walking again. “I’ll send you a card next year, if you hang around that long, which I doubt.” “You don’t need to doubt it. I’ll be leaving for sure if you tell anyone about Annie.” I wheeled. “Are you threatening to take her--?” “Legally, I can’t take her anywhere. I’m sixteen, Maya. Barely sixteen. She’s nineteen. Who’s the guardian here?” I paused, then said, softly, “Oh.” “Yeah, oh. Annie and I never knew our dad. Our mom died last year when Annie was eighteen. Before the accident. So she got custody of me.” “Accident? It’s brain damage?” The look in Rafe’s eyes, the grief…It hurt just to see it, and he turned away fast, mumbling, “Yeah. It’s brain damage. Point is that if anyone finds out, I’m off to a foster home and she’s off to an institution. Which neither of us wants.” I stepped toward him. “I’m sorry. I just…” Jumped to conclusions. Big surprise. “I’m sorry.

Kim could swear that the doctor’s voice lowered slightly, gently. Or she could just be completely paranoid. The words childhood and trauma were spoken more like a whisper. ‘No, it was in college, I think.’ The doctor said nothing. Kim spoke with a half-smile. ‘My childhood was pretty normal; loved sweets, hated cabbage, normal arguments with parents about staying out too late.’ Alex smiled at her and nodded. ‘I think it might have been the stress of exams.’ Just in time, Kim realised the doctor had used her own technique of remaining silent against her. Luckily she’d realised before she’d revealed any truth of her childhood at all. ‘You know, Kim, it’s surprising how many times you used the word “normal”. Most people say that about their childhood and yet there is no such thing unless you live in a television commercial. What did your parents do?’ Kim thought quickly and chose the sixth set of foster parents. ‘My mum worked part-time at Sainsbury’s and my dad was a bus driver.’ ‘Any siblings?’ Kim’s mouth dried and she only trusted herself to shake her head. ‘No major losses or traumatic events before the age of ten?’ Again, Kim shook her head. Alex laughed.

Do we need to ask each other before making purchases of a particular size? Will we talk about our finances on a weekly or monthly basis, or will one person mostly “handle it”? When will we start saving or investing, and how will we learn about it? Do you want a prenup? 5. Do you want to have kids? If so, how many and at what ages do you imagine having them? Do you see yourself being an older or younger parent? Do you want to start trying to have kids soon following marriage, or do you want to wait awhile? Would you ever want to become a foster parent or adopt a child? 6. What do you think of our sex life? What’s working for you and not working for you? Is there anything you want to try or know you will never want to try? Which is a better fit for you: monogamy or polyamory? Do you watch porn and, if so, how often? Would you be willing or able to stop if I asked you to? How important is sex to you in a relationship? How often would you like to have sex? What should we do if our interest in sex starts to change? 7. Do we share the same political ideals? If not, do we care? 8. What do you want your career to look like? What are your short-term and long-term professional goals? Do you plan to work full-time or part-time? If we both work, will one person’s job be more important than the other; if so, whose and why? Are you willing to move for my job? How will work change after we have kids? Will one of us work less? How will we decide who that is? 9. How traditional are you when it comes to gender roles? How much are your answers to these questions informed by gendered assumptions? What were the gender roles in your home growing up, and how does that influence your thinking about work and family? 10. What kind of parent do you want to be? How involved do you want to be in our kids’ upbringing? How much maternity or paternity leave might you like to take? Will you change diapers? When the kids are young, will one or both of us stay home somehow, or will our kids use day care or a nanny? After the kids start school, will someone be home to help with afternoons, and, if so, who? Will you help with homework and attend teacher conferences? Will you shop for birthday and holiday gifts? Will you drive carpool to sports or other activities? How involved were your mom and/or dad in your days and nights when you were a kid, and is this something you want to do similarly or differently?

Creating screen-free zones and times: One effective strategy is to establish certain times and areas in your home as screen-free zones. For example, making meal times or the first hour after coming home from work or school device-free can help foster deeper conversations and connections. This not only sets a routine but also builds a predictable space where both of you know you’ll have each other’s undivided attention.

27.“There was an arrest report in the paper today about a cop that caught two boys playing with fireworks and a car battery. Apparently, the cop charged one and let the other one off!

32.“I started reading this book about anti-gravity. It is so good. It is impossible to put down!