I’ll also never enjoy the phrase “domestic goddess,” but that’s a whole other column.
But I’m not sure I was made for this type of work. I mean, I don’t necessarily care I’ve had stacks of magazines on the end table for months and every month the stack just keeps growing. I keep meaning to go through them and get rid of the ones I don’t need — probably all of them — but I don’t ever seem to have the time. Or the desire.
They can be of any race, ethnicity, religion, educational background or socio-economic status. They can be married, single, divorced, heterosexual, bisexual, homosexual, young or old. I am talking about the deep, dark profile of a domestic violence victim. You see the bumps and bruises. The verbal, mental and sexual abuse can attack anyone.
I suppose there comes a time in every mother’s life when she’s sitting next to her child who fell asleep on the couch after puking all over himself and his bed. Twice.
I know, I know. I’m lucky it hasn’t happened before.
My husband became ill first, but we all just assumed it was food poisoning since he was the only one who showed any symptoms. He recovered, mostly, and life went on. And then a couple days later, after an afternoon snack of popcorn and Pez candy, Sebastian announced his stomach hurt.