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Let me show you my scars

Updated: Jul 28, 2023

I sheathed my body in a gigantic night shirt and crawled into bed with my husband.

Exhaustedly, I began to apply lotion to my chaffed knees.

I gave my legs a once-over to see spots in varies degrees of discoloration.


I started pointing them out, attempting to remember how they'd been gotten.

-Olivia bit me, here…

-One of Olivia’s kicks, there…

-This one is from Olivia pulling up on me…

The bruises continued up to my wrists, farther onto my arms, speckling onto my chest.

I lost count.

I touched my stinging bottom lip, one of Olivia’s enthusiastic kisses…the throb underneath my left eye, an accidental head-butt…

Olivia doesn’t intend to be rough; she simply is.

She is Ferdinand the bull and I'm the china shop.

When she bites, it’s usually a symptom of stimming*.

She kicks her legs whenever she’s excited.

She pulls up on me, for various reasons, because I’m her leverage.

Olivia is close to seventy pounds, and she’s four feet in length.

Looking at me closely, sometimes it may appear that I am in an abusive relationship with a vehement child. In actuality, I’m in a very fervent love affair with an impassioned toddler.

Then I got to thinking about the "adoration" scars of other special needs’ parents, a beautiful solidarity washing over me.

When I feel particularly overwhelmed, I look to Christ, and He shows me His scars.

*For more information on stimming please visit:

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