A Martini Toast

Who I Am

January 16, 2025

Grace and Kindness

And they’re off …

My Art of Writing kids have just listened to Who I Am, by Jessica Andrews (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jd9zYKLepCw), and I’ve asked them to tell me who they are. They’re all over this assignment, and, crazy though it is, at 13 and 14, many of them know exactly who they are. I’m envious, and I’m enormously impressed.

Though they know much of who I am, they won’t know everything until they’re savvy enough or old enough to find and read this blog. They won’t know that the weight I carry is not just in this well upholstered belly, but also in this demolished heart.

I have kids in front of me who have lost parents, one from illness and two by suicide. There is a child for whom I have bought clothing. Two have recently come out as gay, and two go by different names than the names given to them by their parents. Athletes, scholars, thespians, and artists, they are bewitching.

My Gifted and Talented kids are on the S.S. ExPO Elite, appropriating the role of a famous person of their choosing. Dwayne Johnson, Benjamin Franklin, Nikola Tesla, Steve Harvey, Michael Jackson, and Michelle Obama are only 6 of the 30 folks competing to be the last person remaining on the boat, and they are fierce. They must thwart their shipmates’ attacks on their accomplishments and their character, eventually resting on their own laurels.

May these kids always be able to choose who they are and who they want to be. May they feel safe enough to explore, probe, and investigate the outside world and their inner identities. May they know that they are valued, and to that student of mine who lost her mom back in July, I see you and I know it’s your birthday today. I hope you enjoy your cupcake and gift, and don’t forget that you are strong, you are loved, and you are admired by so many.

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Legacy

January 15, 2025

A Mom Without Her Kids, Abandonment, amartinitoast.com, Legacy, Parental Alienation, Tragic Divorce

I often think of the word legacy, but not in the traditional way. Normally, one connects the word to something positive that’s bequeathed to you or bestowed upon you, making one’s life literally or figuratively richer or easier. It’s one of those words, like influential, that, on the surface, seems uplifting and benign. But, when delved into and scrutinized, the possibility of a negative implication crystallizes.

The trauma of the kids’ departure from my life has left me with a legacy of fear and distrust. Each day, I wonder who else will abandon me, and it’s such a suffocating and pathetic feeling. It’s also exhausting, and it not only controls my now, it also controls my future. After all, if my own children could reject me, why wouldn’t others?

I know I’m a good hang and that I offer laughter and light. I know that people enjoy me and appreciate how much I care about them and their families. A marvel to some and an inspiration to others, my strength is undeniable. So is my sadness …

How can I believe in tomorrow, when I barely get through today? How can I tell you all that I’m really not self-sufficient, that I need your hearts more and more, even if it’s just in the form of a daily emoji? Is there a way to express my fragility, without fearing that I’m being needy?

I went to dinner last night with a dear, dear friend. We’ve known each other for almost 3 decades, and nobody can hand me the truth or ask me the hard questions like she does. Articulate, direct, earnest, and brilliant, she sees right through me. She’ll call me out, pump me up, fill me in, propel me forward, pat my back, and set me straight. She doesn’t sugarcoat, and she doesn’t make false promises. I don’t think she thinks my kids are ever coming back to me.

Had I known that my kids would only be mine for such a short time, would I have made different decisions? Would I have left when I wanted to, and not succumbed to Jay’s threats? Would MY legacy be that “I came, I saw, and I conquered?” instead of “I came, I saw, and I cowered?”

Thank you all for the birthday love, treats, cards, dinners, and trips. I love you all.

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Leap Years and Apologies Without Caveats

December 6, 2024

Apologies Without Caveats, Barbara Starsky, Broken Heart, Forgiveness, Grace and Kindness, Healing

My mother used to say that she hated leap years, and they really made her panic. In fact, as the ball dropped to usher in 1988, her spirits did, too. Though sometimes a drama queen, she did have an uncanny sense of knowing when the stars weren’t aligned or something wasn’t kosher.

On January 8, just 8 days after that damn ball dropped, my Grandma Mollie died. She was 88, and she had lived a full, albeit difficult, life. She had five children, 10 grandchildren, a dozen of what would be 18 great grandchildren, no money, and a husband who was ill and died young. Even more remarkable, however, was that this uneducated little woman from Poland, who worked in a factory and who wore support hose before they were cool, was more insightful than those with multiple degrees.

If I’m honest, I’ll tell you that it was my Grandma Marian, my mom’s mom, who was my favorite. She and my grandpa were more fun, but they were younger, they were a couple, and they had the means to spoil us. We were also their only grandchildren.

In the wee hours of the morning on February 28th, only 7 weeks after Grandma Mollie died, Grandma Marian dropped dead of a heart attack. She was 72, and nobody expected it. Oh, sure she had been to handfuls of doctors in the months prior because she wasn’t feeling well, one of whom even told her that she was a ticking time bomb. Oh, sure her face was downright ashen and her tests came back indicative of heart disease, but, no joke, her energy, her sense of humor, and her willingness to love and forgive everybody had us all drinking the denial flavored Kool-Aid that she and my grandfather were knocking back.

2024 has been a pretty woeful and wretched leap year, especially these last few months. With the car accident, the insurance debacle, the stolen purse, and last week’s vertigo episode, I’m counting the seconds until 2025. Sure, there have been sprinkles of tinsel and dashes of glitter, and good fortune has come in the form of passport stamps, student smiles, and hugs for and from many whom I love and who have needed me as I’ve needed them. I’ve even somehow mustered up the courage to see pictures of my children and all of their sweethearts. I didn’t think my fractured heart could handle it, but, oddly enough, seeing them healthy and happy was reassuring and reposeful. I am their mother, after all, and nothing will ever change that.

As this year comes to an end, may we all hold onto hope. May we take a step back and not have to be in the center. May we apologize without caveats, and may we understand, appreciate, and thank G-d that we don’t know and so often can’t relate to what another person is going through. Believe me, the person going through it wishes she wasn’t going through it, either.

Wishing you all grace, love, and light in the coming NON-LEAP year.

Marla

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Past, Present, Future, and Very Tense

November 4, 2024

Can I be your grandma?, Marissa, Rebecca, Zachary

Somebody from my past, who was enormously important to me, used to tell me to be kind to myself. I’m not really good at that, and I never was. Somebody enormously important to me in my present recently told me, when we were discussing the power Jay and my sister still have over me, that the “enemy of my enemy is my friend.” While I, of course, know what that expression fundamentally means, I found it almost cathartic to listen to what this person was saying and its relevance to me.

I am my own worst enemy. Feeling devoid of value because my kids and grandkids are not in my life, I am my own enemy. I am clearly my sister’s enemy and Jay’s enemy, so, if I’m also my own enemy, I must be Jay’s and Lisa’s friend. Powerful …

So, I need to change, right? It’s not easy. Everywhere around me, people are with their kids and grandkids, relishing in all of the rites of passage with which they’re currently blessed. God, I miss those days. From the delicious chubby baby nuggets who only wanted to be held (I never wanted to put them down), to the toddlers running around and sharing every morsel of enthusiasm they’re devouring, I miss it and I want it. I actually need it.

As a teacher, I am lucky enough to be around kids every day. Though humility and constantly being on a diet of having no self-worth kicks in regularly, I know I’m a solid teacher. More importantly, however, I know that I’m a caring teacher. The kids feel safe coming to me; they know that their needs are paramount and will always surpass my own.

I’ve been lucky lately to spend time with some little people. One of them, a 9 month old whose smile is only outweighed by the creases in his wrists and pulkes (chunky thighs in Yiddish), helped fill a crushing void in me. Walking around a store with him in my arms, albeit for only 20 minutes or so, refilled a cavernous tank in me that has been running on empty for years. I’m so grateful to his parents, and I’m making it public here that I will watch anybody’s baby, toddler, child, or teen, anytime you need. I’m a grandma without her grandkids, a mom without her kids, and I have a lot of love and a lot of energy.

Ir’s too early in the morning right now to revisit my own childhood or my kids’ childhoods, but I hope it’s not too late to share a message about tomorrow, which is Election Day. I am going to write a few things that, according to Trump’s dictatorial aspirations, might land me dead or in jail. Well, Mr. Trump, this last decade of not having my kids has killed much of me and landed me in a proverbial prison where the shackles are harrowingly tight and so seldom come off.

I could make a plea as a woman, as a Jew, as a Jewish woman, as an American, as a mom whose kids survived because I was lucky enough to have the Lamborghini of health insurances, as a grandma, as a teacher, as an empath, as a Democrat, as a rape victim, and as somebody who will, one day, even after a quarter of a century of working as a public servant, need her Social Security. I could make a plea to every person Donald Trump and his crew of racist, anti-semitic, homophobic, and contemptuous cronies have been fear mongering and gaslighting. I could make a plea to those two older women who were sitting at the bar last week at Earl’s in Peddler’s Village, feeling all empowered in their shiny bedazzled Trump hats. He’s not your friend, ladies. He wants your Social Security and your soul, and he wouldn’t give you the time of day if he saw you.

The economy is strong. Jobs are up. Inflation is down. This hateful speech has to stop, and the Supreme Court needs to get back to its job of being that fair and final stop of justice on our nation’s Monopoly Board. It can’t be Trump’s Get Out of Jail Free card.

May kindness and decency prevail tomorrow.

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Rosh Hashanah, 2024

October 2, 2024

A Mom Without Her Kids, amartinitoast.com, Broken Heart, Forgiveness, Healing, Tragic Divorce

I’m not one to write twice in a week, but I think that will be the only way for me to get out of this darkness. Having just shared my blog with one of my young and beautiful colleagues, I watched her look at me with such shock and such grace. Her reaction mimicked those of so many who learn my story, perplexed how this person who shows up to life with energy and zeal is, in reality, so completely severed. The person and the vicissitude do not match up.

Today would be my dad’s 91st birthday, and, as I have written before, my life wouldn’t look like it does if my dad had been around. My dad was a warrior, not a coward; a peacekeeper, not an agitator. So aware of Jay’s gaslighting, even as the Alzheimer’s progressed with unsolicited velocity, I often wondered if he knew how much my sister hated me.

My birth announcement was a notecard, and on the front of the notecard, it said, “Lisa Has a Sister.” My name and information about me were on the inside, but, even back then, I didn’t have an identity. My parents’ world was completely about my sister and her feelings, and they willingly laid the lifelong path of eggshells on which they would walk around her.

It is not hyperbolic when I write that there was only one picture of me from when I was a baby. Growing up, it was customary to enlarge a baby picture for one’s Sweet Sixteen, as the guests would sign it and share their affectionate best wishes. Going through the pictures with my mother, it was a symphony of, “No, that’s Lisa. No, that’s your sister. Oh, here. Nope, that’s your sister again.” I have no idea if the one we did find is even me, but it looks so very much like my Zack that I’ll have to keep the faith that it is me.

My mother used to tell me how sickly I was as a baby, that I was yellow and needed gamma globulin shots. Who knows? Maybe that’s why there were no pictures of me, either that or because they didn’t want to upset Lisa.

Gosh, how Lisa would love when I got in trouble! Probably her happiest moments were when the belt would come for me, yet I would cringe when she would get in trouble. I would try to protect and defend her. She was my sister, and when the neighborhood kids picked on her, I was up in their faces, with my chubby hands on my chubby hips, imploring them to get away from her.

I can’t remember if I was 17 or 19, but my parents were away on vacation with another couple. It was summertime, Lisa was watching me, and we were both temping in the city. On the bus home, I had, what I didn’t know at the time, was a panic attack. I couldn’t breathe, and I felt like the walls were literally closing in on me. I told Lisa, and she took me to the hospital. Immediately confirming that it was indeed a panic attack, Lisa asked them to drug test me. She was so proud of herself for doing so, telling my parents the minute they got home. How disappointed she was when the test came back clean! I had never even done drugs, and still don’t, but she so desperately wanted to tell my parents that I had.

There is so much more to write about Lisa, and I will. From her hateful and harmful relationship with Jay, to the merging of their black souls in their effort to destroy me, I’ll write it. Her post at Rebecca’s college graduation, which was captioned, “So glad the whole family is here,” when I wasn’t there, immediately identifies who Lisa is. She never wanted me to succeed, to be happy, to have any of my parents’ attention (or money, but we’ll save that for another day).

For now, as the new year begins and Jewish people around the world head to synagogue to ask G-d to inscribe them in the Book of Life for another year, I’m doing it my way. I haven’t wronged anybody this year, and I really don’t need to apologize, and all of the magic of the holiday sadly no longer exists for me. But, for the first time in my life, I am standing up for myself, ready to begin sharing my book and my story. It’s the only way that I’ll be around to hopefully ask G-d in the traditional way to inscribe me in his book next year.

Shana Tova!

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Wake Me Up When September Ends

September 30, 2024

A Mom Without Her Kids, Abandonment, amartinitoast.com, Grace and Kindness

I am sitting in my classroom with my 8th grade Art of Writing dolls, and their prompt is to share about a time when they felt vulnerable. This prompt does not come from nowhere, as I just finished explaining to them about how vulnerable I was left at 2:45 this past Saturday. I was robbed at the blackjack table in Atlantic City, when somebody literally stole my purse right from under my feet.

We were at such a lovely table, with a dealer who couldn’t lose. His “joie de vivre” kept all of us there, even as he was turning his 15s into 21s so seamlessly. The other folks at the table were gracious and friendly folks who, like us, enjoyed every part of the game, even and perhaps especially the social aspect of it.

My purse was on the floor, with my feet planted firmly on it. Yes, I turned around to get my glass of champagne from the waitress, but, to my knowledge, my feet were still on my bag. All of a sudden, I realized that the bag wasn’t there, and everything stopped as I ran to security. Nobody at the table had seen a thing, including the dealer and the pit boss, but it didn’t take long for the cameras to show the man who grabbed my bag so quickly and boorishly. He apparently ran to the back of the casino and pulled out my treasure trove of a wallet, taking the entire wallet and my bottle of medication.

My wallet, which was a Louis Vuitton wallet, had everything in it. Six credit cards, 2 bank cards, my driver’s license, and, probably worst of all, my social security card. Oh, let’s not forget the two blank checks. Security was helpful in quickly locking all of the credit cards, as the thief did not steal my phone. The police came and took all of the information, and there I stood, feeling so weak and violated.

Two weeks ago, it was the car accident that wrought such havoc for me. Then, the whole ordeal with BMW and the insurance company took over as the situation commandeering my palpitations. And, as I shared my story with my munchkins today, at least five said, “Why do bad things keep happening to you? You’re the nicest person.” What these kids don’t know, however, is that I’ve had far more than a purse stolen right from under my feet, so this, too, shall pass. And, my identity was taken a decade ago when everything that mattered the most to me was appropriated.

Stay safe, friends.

MJ

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What Does Lucky Actually Mean?

September 13, 2024

amartinitoast.com

The school year has begun, and, like I do every year, I concentrate on getting to know all of my students. As a 6th, 7th, and 8th grade teacher, and as the Gifted and Talented teacher, I do have some repeat customers. They are with me for all 3 years, and it is truly a gift that keeps on giving. Their curiosity is limitless, and their ability to reach higher is unbounded.

I also teach Art of Writing to all 3 grade levels. Though these children are not officially labeled “Gifted and Talented” like the others, they bring their own brand of magic and commitment. My goal is to make them love to write, the way I do, and perhaps help them appreciate and recognize the value of and in the written word.

Regardless of whether these charming chickens are my Art of Writing students or my Gifted and Talented students, the 6th graders are new to me every year. The day we meet, I am the hopeful and enraptured kid at my own birthday party, just waiting to see what is hidden inside of all of those “presents.” And, they are my presents.

I have a little 6th grade girl in my Art of Writing class, and as tiny as she is, her voice is tinier. Leaning in to hear and attend to her every word, she so quietly asked me if I have my own kids. Without hesitation, I told her that I have 3 adult children, and that my 2 girls each have 2 girls of their own. She responded so softly, “I think they’re lucky.”

I started thinking about luck, if it exists, if we play a role in it. The nature of the word implies that it’s completely random, but I do think that, whether by the face or the family we’re born into, or the charisma we cultivate, we do have some say in our circumstance.

I left school at 3:30 yesterday to go get a long-awaited massage. The place I go to a handful of times a year is so calming, and my masseur, John, almost makes my Xanax superfluous (the operative word is almost, so let’s not get ahead of ourselves here). A Keith Urban lookalike with a Dalai Lama temperament, he knows just what to do to loosen this chubby Jewish chick’s proverbial corset.

I pulled into a spot directly in front of the spa, but I was a tad early. Thinking I had time to go get gas, and knowing that I was only allowed to park in the spot for 90 minutes, I figured my timing would be perfect if I killed 10 minutes. I didn’t figure that somebody would slam into my car as I backed out of the spot.

As a degreed teacher of English, irony is never lost on me. It’s probably my favorite literary device. How ironic that I was going for a massage to relax, and I had a car accident instead. How ironic that I called my insurance agent earlier in the day to ask him why my car insurance is now $420 a month, when I have no accidents and no tickets. How ironic that my gentle and cherubic fledgling 6th grader thinks my kids are lucky, but they don’t.

I’m going away with one of my besties to see Jon Stewart this weekend. The first time we did a getaway, a man had a heart attack in front of us at the steakhouse where we were eating. The next time we did a getaway, a car was on fire on the opposite side of the road we were on. Something always seems to happen when Thelma and Louise head on one of their trips, and yesterday, this girl’s brand new BMW x3 was rear-ended so hard that the muffler and the catalytic converter aren’t even attached.

You know what’s really ironic, however? It’s really ironic that, while I continue to be challenged and rear-ended in the literal AND figurative senses of the word, I still consider myself lucky. I’m lucky that nobody was hurt yesterday. Unlike the man who hit me yesterday whose wife just died, everybody important to me is healthy. I’m lucky that I get to teach in a school and in a town where children and adults are valued. I’m lucky that I have girlfriends who are my sisters. I’m lucky that I get to go away this weekend with people that I love.

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Letter to Melissa – Part Two

August 12, 2024

A Mom Without Her Kids, Broken Heart, marissasurgery.wordpress.com, Tragic Divorce, Ulcerative Colitis

Miss,

This is part two of the March 20th letter, where I referenced that I heard two songs on Country Radio. I told you about I Loved Her First, but now I need to tell you about Don’t Take the Girl. Don’t Take the Girl is Tim McGraw’s song about a relationship between a boy and a girl that began when the boy didn’t want his dad to take the neighborhood girl with them on the guys’ fishing trip. He asked his father to take any one of his friends, but to please not take the girl. The song continues ten years later, with the boy and the girl dating, only to be held up at gunpoint. Bargaining with the robber that he can have his watch and his money, he begs him please not to take the girl.

Miss, the end of the song, which is so sad and powerful and which takes your breath away in the awful meaning of the word, has the couple married and the woman in labor. The doctor comes out to tell the man that the baby is just fine, but the wife is going to die. He drops to his knees and begs God to take him, but to please not take the girl. I’ve been there.

Miss, I used to pray every night for God to inflict me with Marissa’s illness. Telling him how nobody deserved the pain less than Marissa, I bargained with him throughout every hospital stay, every flare-up, every blockage, and every surgery to have us trade places. The agony of seeing my little beauty suffering so was gut-wrenching, and the hours waiting for her to get out of every surgery were torturous. Mount Sinai had the names of those in surgery on a board in the waiting room, and one time, after about 7 hours, I no longer saw her name on the board. It had said her name all along, and then her name just disappeared. I ran as fast as I could until I found her, terrified that something had happened to her.

Miss, when Marissa’s colon was removed during her first surgery, and she woke up with an ostomy and a bag at the ripe old age of 20, it wasn’t easy for her (to say the least). For an entire year, until she could have a reversal, she would have bowel movements in a smelly bag attached to a stoma. This gorgeous and sweet child, who had been so emotionally strong, began to melt down. She was, understandably, horrified, and it didn’t get easier. I don’t want any accolades, but I was her cheerleader. I kept her going.

One of Marissa’s college roommates was celebrating her birthday down in Atlantic City about a month and a half after Marissa’s first surgery. We encouraged Marissa to go, and she picked up a friend from Marlboro on the way down. About an hour after she picked up her friend, while driving,her bag exploded all over her. It was a nightmare, and she didn’t have extra supplies with her. She called me hysterical, inconsolable, telling me she couldn’t do it anymore. I talked her through it, packed up her stuff, and, facing her father’s disapproval, raced down the parkway to meet her. She was a literal and figurative mess, but I helped her clean up (she had stopped at a local hospital), and I encouraged her to keep going. I ALWAYS encouraged her to keep going.

God didn’t take the girl from me literally, thank Goodness, but on February 24th, 2014, he took her figuratively. That was the day she walked out of my house for good. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.

I love you,

Me

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Letter to Melissa – Part One

August 12, 2024

A Mom Without Her Kids, Abandonment, Barbara Starsky, Broken Heart, Parental Alienation, Tragic Divorce

My Sweet Miss,

It is all around me, in every place I go and everything I do. I was just driving home, and two beautiful songs came on the radio, back to back. As I listened closely to the lyrics on my favorite country station, back to the past I went. The first song was called I Loved Her First, by Heartland, and it was a dad singing to his new son-in-law at his daughter’s wedding. Throughout the song, he tells the man that, although he is now married to his daughter, he was the one who was there at the beginning, who was always her number one. He urges the young man to take care of her, and tells him how he fell in love with her the second she was born.

Miss, the day my girl was born was the happiest day of my life. My wedding was NOT the happiest day of my life, as the drama and the control were already beginning. I knew that I didn’t love him, and his mom and grandma were so unkind and unfriendly. The wedding was my mother’s show, and I was fine with that, even though the night before my wedding, my parents had had the biggest fight and said they were divorcing. My cousin, Gina, was up from Florida, and she and I had to leave my house because of how my parents were fighting over this guy, Armando, who was the new husband of one of my mother’s friends. Al felt he was a pompous ass, and Al never liked that. Maybe I didn’t feel well at my wedding because, unbeknownst to me, my little peanut was already growing inside of me.

Miss, I was in back labor all weekend with Marissa. I actually went into false labor on Friday night, and we were sent home with the promise that I would have the baby by the end of the weekend. Jay wouldn’t let me tell my parents or my sister that I was in labor. He didn’t want them worrying, or involved, and he just wanted the control. He wanted to send the message to them that he was in charge now. (My mother told me she sensed from my voice that I was having contractions).

I went into the hospital late Sunday night when the contractions were 5 minutes apart. I would go 4 minutes and then 4 minutes and then 3 minutes and then 6 minutes, but Jay wouldn’t let me call the doctor because that wasn’t a consistent 5 minutes apart. When we left for the hospital, I wanted to call Bobby and Al and Lisa, but Jay wouldn’t let me. So, when 4 centimeters refused to become 10, and when I was taken into the delivery room for my C-section, Jay still wouldn’t call them. He said he would let them know when the baby was born.

At 7:21 on a Monday morning, Marissa came into the world. I was so in love, and she was so beautiful. Life made sense finally. All of the mistakes I made all along were somehow validated because I had this bundle of joy and blessing and heart. I just wanted to see my mom though, because I needed to know that I was still somebody’s baby. The thing was though, because Jay wouldn’t call them earlier, my mom had left for school minutes before Marissa was born. So, he called my dad, who, in all of his excitement, heard 19 inches as 9 pounds, 10 ounces.

When Al finally got hold of my mother at school, 45 minutes later, Bobby nearly stroked out thinking that somebody my size had tried to deliver nearly a 10 pound baby. She, of course, got right back into her car, and she raced to New Jersey from Staten Island. I kept asking where she was, but, because she had such a long drive and because she didn’t find out until Marissa was an hour or so old because she was en route to Staten Island, I didn’t see my mom for hours. But, when she came into the room, I let out such a sob of relief and joy.

I loved her first, Miss. I loved her first.

Me

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J.D. Vance

August 12, 2024

Abandonment, Grace and Kindness, Healing, marissasurgery.wordpress.com, Tragic Divorce, Ulcerative Colitis

When Donald Trump chose J.D. Vance to be his running mate, I was frightened. The only thing more scary than a madman making draconic and ferocious threats is having somebody by his side to carry those threats out. What is it called when the devil makes a deal with the devil?

J.D. Vance made some very unkind, untrue, and ungracious remarks about women who don’t have children. He called them cat ladies, purporting that their goal was to make everybody else miserable. For those out there who don’t have children, I apologize on his behalf. And, I apologize to ALL of you, unlike his wife, who said that he only meant it about those who actively made the choice not to procreate. Truth be told, I could almost hear him and Trump hurling classless insults and appearance jabs at women who never married. “Who would marry or tap into that? Who would want to make a kid with that?”

I have 3 children, but they don’t speak to me. Am I childless in J.D. Vance’s eyes? What about the moms who face tragedy far worse than mine and have to bury children? Are they childless in J.D. Vance’s eyes? Is the mom who delivers a stillborn childless? What about the woman who selflessly gives her baby up for adoption? Is she childless? What about the surrogate who so munificently agrees to carry a couple’s child because they can’t conceive on their own? Oh, wait, that wouldn’t even be an option if Mr. Trump and Mr. Vance were elected.

My oldest, Marissa, went through hell and back with such advanced Ulcerative Colitis, eventually losing her colon. All of the details are here – www.marissasurgery.wordpress.com. It was such a real and tangible possibility that having children for her would be nearly impossible, but, with the help of IVF, she is now a mom to two beautiful daughters. I’ve never seen them, not even a picture, but I know that they’re beautiful. I know that they’re beautiful because their mom is positively gorgeous.

Mr. Vance, just stop. Stop with the toxic vitriol. Stop with the name calling. Stop with the unsupported speculations. Whatever the reason for a woman not having children in her life, she is hurting. And, it hurts enough without you augmenting, exacerbating, and compounding the pain.

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