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By AnonymAngie Kim
Good things and bad—every friendship and romance formed, every accident, every illness—resulted from the conspiracy of hundreds of little things, in and of themselves inconsequential.
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By AnonymAngie Kim
Having a special-needs child didn’t just change you; it transmuted you, transported you to a parallel world with an altered gravitational axis.
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By AnonymAngie Kim
It was exhausting and it took fifteen minutes. Fifteen for a pit stop that should take two! She knew she shouldn't whine; there were so many "bigger" things to deal with. But it was these everyday indignities, these small chunks of lost minutes, that got her the most, made her think how "normal" parents had no idea how good they had it. Oh, sure - moms of infants got a taste of this, but anything was bearable when it was temporary; try doing it day after day, knowing you'd do this until you died, that you'd be fricking squatting in a van peeing into a jar when you were eighty, driving around your fifty-year-old invalid daughter to God knows what therapies they'd have by then, worrying who'd take over when you died.
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By AnonymAngie Kim
Tragedies don't inoculate you against further tragedies, and misfortune doesn't get sprinkled out in fair proportions; bad things get hurled at you in clumps and batches, unmanageable and messy.
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