Helpless Mom Quotes

His shadow stretched out past mine. I remembered Mom telling me how frightening men were, all men really, how helpless it often felt to be a woman among men, and for the first time I understood what she meant.

Once Dad took us to an amusement park in Oregon. Before I ever manifested. I plummeted twenty stories on a drop ride. Totally helpless to gravity. Unable to fly, to save myself ... I feel that same helpless terror now. Because nothing I say will divert Mom off her present course. Nothing will make her realize what she's doing to me. I'm falling. And this time nothing will save me. No mechanical device will work its wonder and jerk me back at the last minute. But she does realize, a small voice whispers through me. That's why she's doing it. That's why she brought you here. She wants me to hit ground.

Advertising executives must be wringing their greedy hands over the prospect, anxious for their next holiday campaign. Mom is helpless before them all. We’re not a family anymore. We’re a commodity in an Amazon database. Are we humans, or consumers?

Suddenly I realized, horrified, that Darry was crying. He didn’t make a sound, but tears were running down his cheeks. I hadn’t seen him cry in years, not even when Mom and Dad had been killed. (I remembered the funeral. I had sobbed in spite of myself; Soda had broken down and bawled like a baby; but Darry had only stood there, his fists in his pockets and that look on his face, the same helpless, pleading look that he was wearing now.) In that second what Soda and Dally and Two-Bit had been trying to tell me came through. Darry did care about me, maybe as much as he cared about Soda, and because he cared he was trying too hard to make something of me. When he yelled “Pony, where have you been all this time?” he meant “Pony, you’ve scared me to death. Please be careful, because I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to you.” Darry looked down and turned away silently. Suddenly I broke out of my daze. “Darry!” I screamed, and the next thing I knew I had him around the waist and was squeezing the daylights out of him. “Darry,” I said, “I’m sorry . . .” He was stroking my hair and I could hear the sobs racking him as he fought to keep back the tears. “Oh, Pony, I thought we’d lost you . . . like we did Mom and Dad . . .” That was his silent fear then—of losing another person he loved. I remembered how close he and Dad had been, and I wondered how I could ever have thought him hard and unfeeling. I listened to his heart pounding through his T-shirt and knew everything was going to be okay now. I had taken the long way around, but I was finally home. To stay.

I used to think this heroic: my sturdy, stable dad, capable of anything. But now I realize that he's just drawn to dying, helpless things. The unsaveables. Like Mom. Maybe, like me.

With my mother, I felt helpless all the time. Sometimes I feel helpless as a mother, but I know it’ll pass. And this time, there are things I can do to make it better. For example, Rose cries whenever I put her in the stroller, but once I start pushing the stroller, she’s happy. I remind myself that crying is her way of expressing herself, because she can’t speak, whereas my mom cried because she felt pain, and I didn’t know how to make it stop.

Silence was my sister's weapon. When people hurt or angered her, she never got loud like Mom or mean and smart-ass like me. Silence was how she fought back. It wasn't passive, or an act of helplessness: it was a cold cruel withering blade, lasting far longer than my mother's rage or my own antagonism, strong enough to make us practically beg for forgiveness every time. Except now her weapon had gone haywire, turned on herself, driven her from her home and her support system and into what-knew-what kind of danger.

The days I’d passed with my mom before she died were still there, it seemed, seared into the corners of my heart. The atmosphere of the station brought it all back. I could see myself running to the hospital, glad to be seeing my mother again. You never know you’re happy until later. Because physical sensations like smells and exhaustion don’t figure into our memories, I guess. Only the good bits bob up into view. I was always startled by the snatches of memory that I saw as happy, how they came. This time, it was the feeling I got when I stepped out onto the platform. The sense of what it had been like to be on my way to see my mom, for her still to be alive, if only for the time being, if only for that day. The happiness of that knowledge had come back to life inside me. And the loneliness of that moment. The helplessness.

They think my male helplessness is cute. When a single mother does any of those things, she is neglectful and on the receiving end of the superior moms’ scorn.

I’m sure most people who see me feel sorry for me at first. I think their first thought is probably something about how terrible it must be to not have arms. Maybe they imagine me helplessly being carried around by my mom everywhere in a giant baby backpack and my poor parents having to brush my teeth and feed me through a tube and change my diapers and whatever. What a lot of people don’t realize, though, is there are a lot of fantastic things about not having arms.

One of the most profound lessons I’ve learned since becoming a mom -- reinforced by observing hundreds of other parents and babies interact — is that there is a self-fulfilling prophecy to the way we view our babies: If we believe them to be helpless, dependent, needy (albeit lovely) creatures, their behavior will confirm those beliefs. Alternatively, if we see our infants as capable, intelligent, responsive people ready to participate in life, initiate activity, receive and return our efforts to communicate with them, then we find that they are all of those things.

were running down his cheeks. I hadn’t seen him cry in years, not even when Mom and Dad had been killed. (I remembered the funeral. I had sobbed in spite of myself; Soda had broken down and bawled like a baby; but Darry had only stood there, his fists in his pockets and that look on his face, the same helpless, pleading look that he was wearing now.) In that second what Soda and Dally and Two-Bit had been trying to tell me came through. Darry did care about me, maybe as much as he cared about Soda, and because he cared he was trying too hard to make something of me. When he yelled “Pony, where have you been all this time?” he meant “Pony, you’ve scared me to death. Please be careful, because I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to you.” Darry looked down and turned away silently. Suddenly I broke out of my daze. “Darry!” I screamed, and the next thing I knew I had him around the waist and was squeezing the daylights out of him. “Darry,” I said, “I’m sorry . . .” He was stroking my hair and I could hear the sobs racking him as he fought to keep back the tears. “Oh, Pony, I thought we’d lost you . . . like we did Mom and Dad . . .” That was his silent fear then—of losing another person he loved. I remembered how close he and Dad had been, and I wondered how I could ever have thought him hard and unfeeling. I listened to his heart pounding through his T-shirt and knew everything was going to be okay now. I had taken the long way around, but I was finally home. To stay. Chapter 7

Helplessness didn't have to be my identity, I wasn't condemned to it. I was willing - able - to change. Our enmeshment had been enabled by my belief that I needed [my mom] to help me, to take care of things for me - and to save me - but, back in the home where I'd learned this helplessness, I found I no longer felt that I was trapped in it.

Here’s what happens when a single mom meets New York City’s hottest fireman… “Then…seductively…as if he received instruction not from the FDNY’s training school but at Chippendale’s…he slowly inches each suspender off his bare shoulders.” “You must know that exhilarating feeling of a man’s body on top of yours, all that power and muscle pressing you into the bed, the glorious taste of his tongue in your mouth, the manly scent that washes over you and makes you want to melt underneath him.” “Let’s not forget about his nine inches of shapely fireman hose dangling so close in front of my face the scent launches me into a blissful fever.” “Every place he touches contradicts his chosen profession, because instead of putting out a fire he surely starts one.” “I’m so darn helpless in the arms of this powerful, young, ripped personification of New York’s Bravest that I feel myself about to erupt in the most earth shattering explosion since Mount Vesuvius last announced her presence.” “I wonder if he could be enticed to show us a few maneuvers on the brass pole.” “He orchestrates his own personal opera, inspiring high notes with kisses and licks along my elongated nipples, and deep moans with hands that caress my belly.” “We are drawn uncontrollably to each other and have no power to resist, only the tremendous desire to experience everything in its most intense form.

editor in New York and my mom and dad on the phone. My body is weak and bloated. I’m slowly poisoning myself to death. And it’s not like I haven’t seen what this shit does to people. The most fucked-up detoxes I’ve ever seen are the people coming off alcohol. It’s worse than heroin, worse than benzos, worse than anything. Alcohol can pickle your brain—leaving you helpless, like a child—infantilized—shitting in your pants—ranting madness—disoriented—angry—terrified. But that’s not gonna be me, I mean, it can’t be. I may hate myself. I may fantasize about suicide. But I’m way too vain to let myself die an alcoholic death. There’s nothing glamorous about alcoholism. You don’t go out like Nic Cage in Leaving Las Vegas, with a gorgeous woman riding you till your heart stops. Alcoholism takes you down slow, robbing you of every last bit of dignity on your way

Mom died,” Nina said, and then she watched all three of her siblings fall to the earth. And she knew, in a flash, that she had to be able to catch them. She had to be able to hold each of them up, as they screamed, as the water came and soaked their socks and squeaked into their shoes. And so she did. Do you know how much a body can weigh when it falls into your arms, helpless? Multiply it by three. Nina carried it all. All of the weight, in her arms, on her back.

mom died," nina said and then she watched all three of her siblings fall to the earth. and she knew, in a flash, that she had to be able to catch them. she had to be able to hold each of them up, as they screamed, as the water came and soaked their socks and squeaked into their shoes. and so she did. do you know how much a body can weigh when it falls into your arms, helpless? multiply it by three. nina carried it all. all of the weight, in her arms, on her back.

Grief is a swarm of feelings that swirls inside of you for your whole life; it's a weight that settles around the eyes, transforms the shape of a laugh. It is sadness mixed with a furious rage churning in an ocean of helplessness. It's an old word, dating back to the 1200s, and its latin roots mean to "make heavy." The first six definitions in the Oxford English Dictionary describe various types of hardship or physical pain. The seventh definition makes me think grief is the correct term for the storm of emotion I associate with my mom's mental illness. "Mental pain, distress, or sorry...deep or violent sorrow, caused by loss or trouble; a keen or bitter feeling of regret for something lost, remorse for something done, or sorrow for mishap to oneself or others.

In attunement, it is the infant who leads and the mother who follows. “Where their roles differ is in the timing of their responses,” writes John Bowlby, one of the century’s great psychiatric researchers. The infant initiates the interaction or withdraws from it according to his own rhythms, Bowlby found, while the “mother regulates her behaviour so that it meshes with his... Thus she lets him call the tune and by a skillful interweaving of her own responses with his creates a dialogue.” The tense or depressed mothering adult will not be able to accompany the infant into relaxed, happy spaces. He may also not fully pick up signs of the infant’s emotional distress, or may not be able to respond to them as effectively as he would wish. The ADD child’s difficulty reading social cues likely originates from her relationship cues not being read by the nurturing adult, who was distracted by stress. In the attunement interaction, not only does the mother follow the child, but she also permits the child to temporarily interrupt contact. When the interaction reaches a certain stage of intensity for the infant, he will look away to avoid an uncomfortably high level of arousal. Another interaction will then begin. A mother who is anxious may react with alarm when the infant breaks off contact, may try to stimulate him, to draw him back into the interaction. Then the infant’s nervous system is not allowed to “cool down,” and the attunement relationship is hampered. Infants whose caregivers were too stressed, for whatever reason, to give them the necessary attunement contact will grow up with a chronic tendency to feel alone with their emotions, to have a sense — rightly or wrongly — that no one can share how they feel, that no one can “understand.” Attunement is the quintessential component of a larger process, called attachment. Attachment is simply our need to be close to somebody. It represents the absolute need of the utterly and helplessly vulnerable human infant for secure closeness with at least one nourishing, protective and constantly available parenting figure. Essential for survival, the drive for attachment is part of the very nature of warm-blooded animals in infancy, especially. of mammals. In human beings, attachment is a driving force of behavior for longer than in any other animal. For most of us it is present throughout our lives, although we may transfer our attachment need from one person — our parent — to another — say, a spouse or even a child. We may also attempt to satisfy the lack of the human contact we crave by various other means, such as addictions, for example, or perhaps fanatical religiosity or the virtual reality of the Internet. Much of popular culture, from novels to movies to rock or country music, expresses nothing but the joys or the sorrows flowing from satisfactions or disappointments in our attachment relationships. Most parents extend to their children some mixture of loving and hurtful behavior, of wise parenting and unskillful, clumsy parenting. The proportions vary from family to family, from parent to parent. Those ADD children whose needs for warm parental contact are most frustrated grow up to be adults with the most severe cases of ADD. Already at only a few months of age, an infant will register by facial expression his dejection at the mother’s unconscious emotional withdrawal, despite the mother’s continued physical presence. “(The infant) takes delight in Mommy’s attention,” writes Stanley Greenspan, “and knows when that source of delight is missing. If Mom becomes preoccupied or distracted while playing with the baby, sadness or dismay settles in on the little face.

My sisters and I giggled at “Dance: Ten; Looks: Three” (“Tits and ass / bought myself a fancy pair / tightened up the derriere”) while our parents sat in the front of the car—my father at the wheel, my mom in the passenger seat—both distracted and nonplussed. We flipped through the Jacqueline Susann and Harold Robbins hardbacks in my grandmother’s bookshelf and watched The Exorcist on the Z Channel (the country’s first pay-cable network that premiered in LA in the mid-’70s) after our parents sternly told us not to watch it, but of course we did anyway and got properly freaked out. We saw skits about people doing cocaine on Saturday Night Live, and we were drawn to the allure of disco culture and unironic horror movies. We consumed all of this and none of it ever triggered us—we were never wounded because the darkness and the bad mood of the era was everywhere, and when pessimism was the national language, a badge of hipness and cool. Everything was a scam and everybody was corrupt and we were all being raised on a diet of grit. One could argue that this fucked us all up, or maybe, from another angle, it made us stronger. Looking back almost forty years later, it probably made each of us less of a wuss. Yes, we were sixth and seventh graders dealing with a society where no parental filters existed. Tube8.com was not within our reach, fisting videos were not available on our phones, nor were Fifty Shades of Grey or gangster rap or violent video games, and terrorism hadn’t yet reached our shores, but we were children wandering through a world made almost solely for adults. No one cared what we watched or didn’t, how we felt or what we wanted, and we hadn’t yet become enthralled by the cult of victimization. It was, by comparison to what’s now acceptable when children are coddled into helplessness, an age of innocence.

My dad started shouting,” he said, hearing the sharpness, the anger, in the background all over again. “He told her to ask me if I was still a fag.” Casey swallowed and looked at Joe helplessly. “I mean, I turned down a date with Dev to make this phone call, right? He’s… he’s getting damned good at the hand job… thought we might progress from there… and she’s asking me if I’m still ‘one of them’ and I’m thinking, ‘One of what? A boy? A high school student? What the hell am I one of?’ and I say, ‘I still like boys, Mom,’ and suddenly Dad’s got the phone and he’s shouting at me that I didn’t get to come home, ever, if I was still a sissy little—

But in fact I was like Ossie, in this one regard: I was consumed by a helpless, often furious love for a ghost. Every rock on the island, every swaying tree branch or dirty dish in our house was like a word in a a sentence that I could read about my mother. All objects and events on our island, every single thing that you could see with your eyes, were like clues that I could use to reinvent her: would our mom love this thing, would she hate it? For a second I luxuriated in a real hatred of my brother.

I’m bird watching.” The lie slips off my tongue almost effortlessly. The tightness in my chest keeps me from wanting to share my true feelings. I’m a little on edge. Mom beams! “Ooh, I love ornithology! What did you find? A hummingbird? A gold finch? A purple martin?” She shuffles toward me in her fuzzy pink bunny slippers. I turn back toward the window helplessly, my eyes scanning the yard in a desperate zigzag. “Um, no—none of those. I was watching that beautiful blue jay.” Mom follows my gaze and then gives me a look. “Sweetie, that bird is a robin.

When you get frustrated with your children’s immaturity and helplessness and wonder if they will ever grow up, take heart. It’s this same childish nature that gives the sweetest bedtime hugs, always forgives when we’re unkind, and teaches us more about God and ourselves than any adult Bible study leader.

• Your kid is untrustworthy at this point. You cannot just ask him if he has to go. He’ll say “no,” ’cause it’s his favorite word, and then you are screwed. • Don’t ask, period. Never ask if he has to go. Tell and bring. If you see or know he’s got to go—he’s dancing around, looking uncomfortable—you say, “Come. Time to pee.” • Use your own leverage as Dad. Your kid loves you in a really special way that is different than how he loves Mom. Use that power for good. Enjoy whatever special time you two have together, but make him pee first. • Video games, wrestling, TV watching . . . pee first. Say that. “You pee first, and then we’ll . . .” • Don’t act helpless. You know your kid just as well as your partner, but in a different way. • Keep your eyes open looking for your kid’s pee-pee dance. • Don’t hover, and don’t prompt him every two seconds. Can you imagine anything worse than someone on you like white on rice, asking you to pee when you don’t have to? • Be casual and cool. You probably already have that role anyway. You can be casual and nonchalant and good cop and still watch out for pee.

It’s okay to cry, and it’s okay to let those you love cry. When people we love are upset, we tend to want to help them respond differently. If that doesn’t work, then we try the drill-sergeant approach. My family’s favorite: “Let’s not shed any tears or have anyone upset.” We all know that grieving is healthy—we just don’t want anyone to do it. It makes us feel bad and helpless. As if we had the power to heal someone’s pain. I

But when he got to his office, after dropping Peter off at camp, Dakota wasn’t there. She’d left early the day before. He checked the machine to see if she’d called in sick, but there wasn’t any message. By ten, he was worried and wondering whom to talk to. Just when he picked up the phone to call Pia, Dakota walked in. She looked like hell. Her face was pale, her eyes red and swollen. There was an air of grief and loss about her, as if something important to her had been taken away from her. He was on his feet the second he saw her. “What happened?” he demanded. She shook her head. “Nothing.” “It’s not nothing. Were you in an accident? Did someone hurt you?” If she’d had a boyfriend, he would assume he’d beaten her or slept with her best friend. But as far as he knew, Dakota wasn’t dating. “I’m fine,” she said, her mouth trembling as she spoke. “You have to believe me.” “Then you need to be more convincing.” She forced a smile that was more ghoulish than happy. “How’s that?” “Frightening.” She sighed. “I’m fine. I know I look bad. I’m not hurt, I’m not sick.” She swallowed. “Everything is how it’s always been.” “Dakota, get real. Something happened.” “No, it didn’t.” Tears filled her eyes. “It didn’t.” The tears spilled down her cheeks. Instinctively, he walked toward her, but she shook her head and backed away. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I can’t do this. I can’t be here today. I need a day or two. Sick days, vacation days, whatever you want.” He felt helpless and confused. “Take whatever time you need. Can I call someone? One of your sisters? Your mom?” “No. No one. I’m fine. I have to go.” With that she grabbed her purse and practically ran out of the office. Raoul stared after her, not sure what he was supposed to do now. Let her go? Follow her? Call a friend? She wasn’t physically hurt—he could figure out that much. So what had happened? Had she heard bad news? But if there’d been a disaster in the family, he would have heard about it. News traveled fast in Fool’s Gold. He would give her time, he decided. If she wasn’t back at work in a couple of days, he would go talk to her. If she wouldn’t talk to him, he would insist she talk to someone else.

As our parents age, we experience emotions that we have never associated with them before, such as anxiety, frustration, grief, loss, fear, helplessness, and dread, among many others.

We’ve just arrived home…and are in the lot of our building when I hear someone yell, “Fucking piece of white trash. Are all those kids yours?… “Go inside, right now. Go!” Mom whispers urgently. I’ve seen drunk men in uniform before. Sometimes it’s the police, sometimes it’s firemen. On weekend nights, they stumble past sloppily, shouting curses, dirty words, and racial slurs, whatever they can think of, “fuck you this, fuck you that.” They hate us and all our neighbors because we’re poor. I’m ashamed because they’re right—we’re dirty and helpless. But I’m also angry because I already know I don’t want this to be who I am, but I have no power to do anything about it. Can’t they see that?

We’ve just arrived home…and are in the lot of our building when I hear someone yell, “Fucking piece of white trash. Are all those kids yours?… “Go inside, right now. Go!” Mom whispers urgently. I’ve seen drunk men in uniform before. Sometimes it’s the police, sometimes it’s firemen. On weekend nights, they stumble past sloppily, shouting curses, dirty words, and racial slurs, whatever they can think of, “fuck you this, fuck you that.” They hate us and all our neighbors because we’re poor. I’m ashamed because they’re right—we’re dirty and helpless. But I’m also angry because I already know I don’t want this to be who I am, but I have no power to do anything about it. Can’t they see that? “Go now. Hugh, take them inside. Go!” Mom hisses again. But Jessica, Alex, and I stay where we are. We don’t want to leave her. We’re a pack, and packs stick together.

As you're listening, watch. As your preschooler cries for his beloved plastic blue spoon ("No, Mom, not the yellow one!") or you hear the beginnings of a long night via the static of the baby monitor, look through these windows of grace with the eyes of your heart. See evidence of God's grace to give and sustain life in our fallen world. Believe God is with you in your good work of mothering. I know this is difficult and often painful work. But since "the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us" (Rom. 8:18), then let's not fix our eyes on these temporary pains but on Christ. Respond to God's calls to worship throughout your days and nights, serving and nurturing helpless little ones and worshiping the author of life.

… If I were ever to get power to retrieve photographs that I have burnt … I would crave to retrieve that ‘coach Mom’s’ photograph, the most. Feeling of guilty conscience of the nonsensical burning of that photograph, Mom being no more, would die when I die…

She pulls his ear, twists and churns it until he helplessly wails and asks for forgiveness. His small cotton-ball-like earlobe swells and stays red long after this torture. Is that how parents exert a discerning influence over the childrens character ? As if that 6 year old had committed a horrible crime by not impulsively tending to the commands of his glorious mother.

They Just Don’t Do That Anymore He used to wake me, oh so often. He’d had a bad dream, or a cough, or something felt funny inside. I would grumble, or be patient, depending on the night and how tired I was. Back to his room and tuck him in. Rinse and repeat, through many moons. But he doesn’t do that anymore. He used to be our pickiest eater. Though we’d always fed all three the same, he turned up his nose more frequently. I would grumble about this, or be patient, depending on the day and all that had happened up until that point. Trying not to make it worse, we encouraged him to taste new flavors. We also honored his preferences and didn’t force it. Now he gobbles down chili, curry, many of his former not-favorites. He doesn’t do that anymore. They used to argue every day: shout, bite, whine, hit. Clamoring for position and power, each in his or her own way. I would grumble about this, or be patient, depending on the state of my heart and energy level. These days plenty of disagreements occur, but so do apologies, ones I don’t always have to oversee or manage. They don’t do that anymore. The tantrums, oh dear Lord, the tantrums. “Don’t give in and they’ll soon learn that tantrums don’t work.” Ha. I never gave in, but that didn’t stop these daily events that pushed me to my limit and beyond. For years. I would grumble about this, or be patient, depending on how many times we’d been down this road in the past twenty-four hours. At times I found myself sitting through the screaming, my own tears of helplessness running like rivers. Too drained to even wipe them away. Convinced I must be doing everything wrong. But they don’t do that anymore. Some mamas are reading this after multiple times up in the night. Or you’ve stumbled across these words soon after yet another shouting match. Or maybe the dinner you poured weary energy into met with a resounding lack of applause. I don’t want to minimize the stage you’re in. Don’t want to tell you, “Enjoy these days, they go by so fast.” I’m not here to patronize you. Instead let me pour a little encouragement your way: Go ahead and grumble, or be patient. You don’t have to handle all the issues perfectly. Go ahead and cry, and wonder if it’s even worth it. Go ahead and pray, for strength to make it through the next five minutes. Because one day, often when you least expect it, often when you’ve come to peace with the imperfections and decided to be happy anyway, you’ll wake up, look around in amazement and realize: They just don’t do that anymore.

I had always tried so hard to please—to please my parents, to please audiences, to please everyone. I must have learned that helplessness from my mom. I saw the way my sister and my dad treated her and how she just took it. Early in my career, I followed that model and became passive. I wish I’d had more of a mentor then to be a badass bitch for me so I could’ve learned how to do that sooner. If I could go back now, I would try to become my own parent, my own partner, my own advocate—the way I knew Madonna did.

Sounds like an acid head, of course. What they all saw in … a flash was the solution to the basic predicament of being human, the personal I, Me, trapped, mortal and helpless, in a vast impersonal It, the world around me. Suddenly! —All-in-one!—flowing together, I into It, and It into Me, and in that flow I perceive a power, so near and so clear, that the whole world is blind to. All the modern religions, and the occult mysteries, for that matter, talk about an Other World—whether Brahma’s or the flying saucers’—that the rational work-a-day world is blind to. The—so called! friends—rational world. If only they, Mom & Dad & Buddy & Sis, dear-but-square ones, could but know the kairos, the supreme moment … The historic visions have been explained in many ways, as the result of epilepsy, self-hypnosis, changes in metabolism due to fasting, or actual intervention by gods—or drugs: Zoroastrianism

Should I shower?" I ask, because apparently I'm helpless. I need someone to tell me exactly what to do like my mom used to do when I stayed home from middle school watching Cartoon Network all day long, doing nothing for myself until she told me to.

London was really cool. We stayed there last night, with friends of Kendra’s mom. My mom and dad thought we should have a rest before we came over to the mainland.” Kelly has lain down on her tummy on the lounger, face on her arms, but now she lifts her head, squinting in the sun, and stares incredulously at Paige. “When you came over to the mainland?” she asks. “You do know that the United Kingdom is a completely different country from Italy, right?” Paige’s blond eyebrows knit in confusion. “But it’s all part of Europe?” she says, looking at Kendra for help. “I mean, England’s like an island, off the mainland of Europe.” “We’re a separate country,” Kelly says coldly. “It would be like saying that Greenland’s an island off the mainland of the United States.” “Isn’t it?” Paige says, giggling helplessly. “I was never very good at geography.” “Kelly’s right,” Kendra drawls. “Some of us Americans do have half an idea where other countries in the world are located.” “Are you two friends?” I ask, because I can see that Kelly’s still seething. “Our parents know each other from the country club,” Paige says, not a whit upset by being effectively called an idiot by Kendra. “Our moms play tennis together on Saturdays.” “And our dads golf together,” Kendra says self-mockingly now. “It’s all super-cozy. I wanted to come to Italy for the summer, and I found this course online--” “But her mom didn’t want her to go on her own, and she told my mom, and my mom thought it would be a great learning experience for me--” Paige bursts in enthusiastically. “And teach you where some other flipping countries are besides your own,” Kelly mutters sotto voce.

Sunday dinner at the Marsdens’ is more than a meal--it’s an occasion. I’m dressed accordingly, wearing a pale green sundress with a sweater to ward off the chill of the air-conditioning. “Well, I blame my mama, God rest her soul,” Laura Grace says with a sigh. “She never taught me how to cook. You have no idea how lucky you are, Jemma--you and Nan both. Your mama’s a great cook, and she made sure to teach you. You girls’ husbands are surely going to thank her one day.” It’s impossible to miss the pointed look she gives Ryder. He ignores her and continues to attack his own roast. He’s rolled up the sleeves of his white button-down shirt, but his tie is neat and his khakis perfectly pressed. He cuts off a slice of rare meat and brings it to his mouth. Chewing slowly, he fixes his gaze on the wall directly above my mother’s head. It’s clear that he, too, would rather be anywhere else right now--anywhere but here, a helpless victim of our mothers’ machinations. Laura Grace glances from him to me and back to him again. “Next year, when the two of you are off at Oxford, you better promise to drive over together each week for Sunday dinner, you hear?” “Now, c’mon, Laura Grace,” Mr. Marsden chides. “You know Ryder hasn’t made his decision yet. You’ve got to give the boy some space to figure it out.” She waves one hand in dismissal. “I know. But a mama can hope, can’t she? I’m sorry, but I just can’t imagine the two of them going off in different directions.” “There’s only one choice for the both of them, as far as I’m concerned,” my mom says. “It’s about time the Rebels get their football program back on track, and Ryder’s just the boy to do it--with Jemma cheering him on.” I can’t help but cringe, staring down at my plate. I mean, is this really what my mom dreams about? Is this the best she can imagine for me? For a moment, everyone continues to eat silently. The tension in the air is so thick you could cut it with a knife, but I doubt Mama or Laura Grace even notice.

Cancer is a disease that leaves you feeling helpless. As a young woman, I was used to taking charge and feeling some sense of control over my life. But cancer reminds you that any feeling of control is a façade. I felt healthy and looked healthy, yet my body was filled with cells that were sick and abnormal. And I had absolutely no control over what was happening. Carmella

February 20 I still can’t get the divorce out of my mind. How do I help? Today I realize my helplessness. I can’t fix Brian’s marriage. I can’t fix my body. I don’t know why I ever thought I could control the things around me. Today I feel like I don’t know who I am anymore. When did I stop making decisions? I’ve become so accustomed to trying to please everyone or trying to impress others that I don’t even know what Susan wants. Lord,

Yesterday I saw my new born baby masseur ( local bai which has no idea what is right or wrong) massaging my new born baby . My instincts was telling me that a harsh massage is not required ( which she was doing by providing all kinds of wrong exercises as per pediatric) but with all elders experience and this being fourth newborn child in my house I decided to observe massage, though I was feeling to ask her to stop immediately but was helpless with all elders present .Soon after the massage I said my wife we need to consult pediatric about this massage (consultation should have been done before starting massage but was helpless in front of elders decision). In consultation pediatric informed us that massage is only for bonding between masseur and baby (so it is better if Mom gives massage). If massage is not provided to babies its completely fine and if done should be done gently. After listening to this I was feeling guilty and so bad as it is my duty to protect my new born baby against any harm and I was not able to do so. My new born was shouting and crying for help while having massage came in front of my eyes and for this I am very angry with myself and my family members excluding my wife as she herself had c-section delivery and was asked by doctor to rest. Mothers as it is don't get enough time even to sleep after delivery for at least a week. Nobody wants to harm baby but before taking any action it was my family's duty to know what is right. Nobody has the right to abuse anyone specifically newborn. From this blog I want to make everyone aware that please don't rely on anyone and take actions always take expert advice (pediatric) in case of babies as there are lot of misconceptions and I request elders that its OK if you don't know what's right but please don't misguide and only when damn sure then only advice. Also confirm that with expert before implementing. I hope that I am able to help some of the newborn by not getting that so called good massage (actually a harsh massage).

Not having control over the way your mind affects you is one of the worst feelings in the world. You feel trapped and helpless. I wish I would’ve gotten into therapy the second my mom left, but mental health wasn’t really talked about with men, and I wanted to break that stigma and give kids access to the help they need. The help I needed but didn’t know how to ask for.