Most Commented Family Blogs (547)

we bought a puppy for my son

We need everything right after our birth........

Lets not forget anyone, who died with many other different issues & reasons
on Memorial Day. (It`s Memorial Day, every day of my life, to me)..
Almost everyone in my immediate family, passed away from some sort of cancer.
I have no siblings now & I`m alone. - (& why I`m on a dating site even though I am now 84. I am looking for a man to share my life with.)
My son, Johnny, had no chance to start a life with his girlfriend. He was only 23,
& a drunk cause an accident on Valentine`s Day, in 1978, 1/4 of a mile close to my home. I felt helpless. What could I have done? He lived only 6 days in a coma, & I was a single parent, who had to give him permission to die because knowing, in the coma he was in...he`d never know life or wake up
I had to pay for the funeral because the drunk had no insurance.
I miss my child every day...& Valentine`s Day , Mother`s Day, & all the holidays are not happy times at all for me. It "THE MEMORY" of him, is all I have.

The children's rights accdg to a 6 yr old boy who was brought to a barangay council

Love of your child

I Am Sending A Doev

I feel so lame and so not genuine.

I had a short stint, about 2 months, looking after disabled kids and teenagers when I was 17. It was a voluntary job about 30 mins drive from my home. Transport and food provided. The facility was run by a local church that got its funding mostly from Sweden.

Some of those kids were lucky, they had families to go back home at the end of the day. Some were not that lucky......

There was a 9 year-old boy who was brought to the center with bloodied ankles. Apparently, his family had no one to look after him at home and decided to shackle him to the post outside the car porch so that he wouldn't soil the inside of their house...

A teenage mom who had an intelligence of a 5 year-old kid who had been impregnated by strangers over and over again.....she had the sweetest disposition, always smiling at waving at me when she sees me every morning....

Sadly, when I left that place after 2 months, I got too caught up in my own problems to think of them..

When I watched this clip, I can't help but feel in awe of this man. Admiration and respect quickly followed suit. Love his final statement..."There's always good in this world, more than the bad, always..."

The Translation :
I Will Come Back Mother Kissing Your Luscious Head
Divulging My Longing To You And Sipping Your Right Hand's Essence
Nuzzling My Cheek In Your Feet's Soil
Watering The Ground With My Joyful Tears
How Many Nights You Were Sleepless Working To Get Me Sleeping Like A Kid
And How Many Times You Were Thirsty But You Worked To Water Me With All Tenderness
And I Will Never Forget Your Rainy Eyes When I Was Sick
And Your Restless Eye Scared Of Any Danger May Happen To Me
And What About Our Farewell In That Dawn ,, What A Hard Dawn It Was
No Heart Can Ever Describe The Abandonment That You Faced By Me
Then You Said Something I Couldn't Forget Up Until Now :
It's Impossible That You Will Find Warmer Arms Than Mine



Oh My (( Life's Joy )) The Creator Of The Universe Commanded Me To Be Loyal To You
Your Content Is The Secret Of My Good Fortune And Your Love Is My Faith's Sparkle
Don't Be Sad Mother ,, Here Am I ,, I Came To You With Teary Eyes
Don't Be Sad Mother ,, There Will Be No Separation From Now On ,, Until The Separation Of Death

PAY ME

He slept in the back bedroom of the small end bungalow that was our home place, a room into which the high hedge let only meagre light, even on the sunniest day.

My aunt took him home with her from a seaside holiday. Invited here for my amusement, he struck a ghoulish tone that discomforted us beneath our laughter.

My grandmother, in her drawn-out Border brogue, would say: “Sure that oul’ thing’ll only scar’ the child.”

And so, after commanding an initial place of sideboard prominence, he found himself confined in a drawer of a dressing table in a corner of the back bedroom. There he would lie waiting for his rest to be disturbed by someone, usually me, making secret pilgrimage to the grim collection point he presided over.

He was a plastic skeleton in a novelty moneybox.

He was the dread numismatist of my childhood.

The rectangle of thin tin was fashioned like a coffin. Painted on its sides were cobwebs dripping with fat spiders, flittering bats with wet, red mouths. A black cloth concealed the coffin’s contents from sight.

And there was a button, marked in scarlet, with the instruction PAY ME illuminated in shivery capitals.

I remember a particular day when, having lifted the moneybox from the drawer, I stood poised with a brown penny hot in my small hand.

An emaciated light squeezed its way between the almost closed curtains. In the backyard I could hear my mother and granny working at the mangle, its grind and the skite of water from the scrunched clothes throwing out familiar, reassuring sounds.

I placed my coin carefully on the button, and pressed down.

A creaky whirr commenced, the workings of the toy’s internal mechanism ingeniously suggestive of a wooden lid resisting its slow opening outwards.

Then, out from under the jet black cloth, came a long, luminous arm of bone, the hand hooked clawlike to drag the coin down into the dark innards of the coffin where it rattled eerily to rest.

And, as the hand retreated, from under the top of the cloth cover appeared a livid green skull that seemed to nod acknowledgement of the token before bobbing back into the folds of its uneasy sleep.

The skull’s tilt forward brought its empty eye sockets and its stripped grin level with my child’s line of vision. The effect, burned into the retina of my imagination’s eye, was one of recognition.

I should have let it go at that, and slipped away into the sun. But I wanted to copy the daring of my older brothers. So, offering no coin this time, I reached my finger forward and pressed down again and again upon the button.

The skeleton’s arm shout out in search of its reward, dropped back with nothing, shot out again. And as the claw of bone scraped along the tin in frustration, the skull rattled back and forth to complete the mime of thwarted anger.

I was hypnotised by the rhythm set by the tiny deaths-head, and the guilt and fear that suddenly filled me permeated the plaything with menace. A message passed between us in a language that would resist full translation until years had elapsed. Trying to trick me was a big mistake, the skull seemed to say. If you don’t pay me, now you’ll pay me later.

I hurried away while the skeleton was still in motion.