Twenty Years and One Little Boy Later by Anne Neville

At 19, I read Adrienne Rich as she struggled to put into words the isolation and terror of being the solo parent of small children all day. I saw her essays as the record of a historical moment, the cusp of change between an era of rigid gender roles and frustrated housewives, and my own time of working mothers and egalitarian divisions of parenting labor. I treasured her insights into how destructive the old system could be to the spirit of mother and child alike.

Cambria at Thirteen by Jan Richman

I have always felt secretly selfish about my own compassion for others. My instant tearing at someone else's loss, or sadness, or agonizing over something to do with family; anyone's family. It's not that I feel for them, but that I feel. It is a personal fear that sets in: It could be me; it could be my daughter who is lost forever, my little boy who has disappeared, my heart that is broken. People call me a 'bleeding heart.' I feel that I am fooling the world.

Subscribe to RSS - adoption