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When I was 8, for the crime of taking a popsicle without asking, my abusive parent ripped off my favorite stuffed animal’s arm in front of me and then hid it for a year. Of all the shit I went through, that was the thing that devastated me the most. This is so evil.

If I wasn’t clear, I mean he took both pieces of my stuffed animal, not just the arm. He returned it to me a year later, arm crudely sewn back on, at the dinner table in front of the whole family, when I guess I was being a good girl, and I hold back my tears and act grateful.

As the father of two daughters I’m just popping by to say that is beyond fucked up and I’m sorry it happened to you. (I had abusive shit done to me but your anecdote takes the cake.)

It has been so enlightening to become a parent, and of course you worry “what if I end up being mean to my kid too?” It’s a relief to realize you just don’t have that rage in you, AND you realize just how messed up it was on a whole other level! 🙏

It’s also sort of a waterfall effect: yes, I’ve lost my cool on my kids, but not with the regularity that parent lost their cool on me. In the back of my mind, some safeguard is operating.