Why We Gave Our Son Away
Parenthood requires sacrifice. Lots of it. A more optimistic person might say it’s not sacrifice but compromise, and to that I say they don’t know what they’re talking about. Over the last several years, my wife and I have been parents to a wonderful little human named Harrison. He’s intelligent, strong, funny, helpful, and kind. Most of the time anyway. He’s also a three-year-old toddler so he is also erratic, neurotic, sullen, mercurial, and violent. Why, just yesterday, he slapped me across the face after telling him I loved him. In a very tiny nutshell, that right there is parenthood. You give love, you get smacked in the face.
The men rushed toward the open door. “Not so fast, fuck-os,” she said. Annie was a small woman, no more than five-foot-three with most of her weight in her disproportionate breasts, of which she often complained gave her backaches. She was wearing a pair of dirty blue jeans and a red, cable knit sweater with white snowflakes across her chest. She stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips and a freshly lit cigarette dangling from her lips. Her graying blond hair was disheveled like she had leapt out of bed in a rush. “What’re you saggy raccoon tits doing here?”