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      What to do if you get a "Wrong Password" message   01/21/16

      You must reset your password (even if you know it's the right one) before you can sign into the community. Thanks to the upgrade, there's an issue with passwords and signing in. The good news is that you can click here: http://community.grandparents.com/index.php?/lostpassword/ to change your password (it'll let you reuse your old one). If you can't reach the email address connected to your account then please contact the admin at latoya@grandparents.com and I'll help you sort it out. 
    • LatoyaADMIN

      Anonymous posting is back   01/21/16

      We've removed the extra step that required you to go to the full-page editor to access the anonymous post option. Now, you can reply to a post and toggle the button to post anonymous (see photo below).    Read more on anonymous posting here:    In short, the mods can see who posts as anonymous, we moderate anonymous posts the same as revealed posts, you can reply anonymously to your own topic, you may report anonymous posts.

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  1. If you''ll be alone on Christmas... ... or Hanukkah,, etc.for whatever reason - geographical distance, estrangement... sigh... or, very sadly, loss of a loved one -I know it can be hard, and I feel for you. Then again, I realize that some people "look on the bright side" of the situation - peace and quiet, no walking on eggshells (if that's been a problem in the past), a chance to sleep in, etc. In fact, I know that some people actually prefer solitude for, at least, part of their holiday. So now I'm wondering  how you feel about being alone for the coming holidays. Also, what do you plan to do w/ your time if anything?
  2. I Love My Son

    How kind of you, rosered. We can all use the prayers of others! Here's an essay I wrote called, I Love My Son. Some of you might recognize your own son or daughter. Ten years later, I still can't read this without crying, and yet the landscape is so much better now than it was then. My words might give someone hope for the future. I BASK in his handsome face, his tall, strong physique, his intelligence and quick wit, his ability to outshine any conversationalist in the room. He is insightful and kind and compassionate. He knows the difference between right and wrong, even when he comes down on the side that makes him ashamed and diminished. Seth was raised to believe that he was the center not only of my universe, but everyone else’s. It’s what we did in the 60s and 70s. I caught him when I should have let him fall. He never learned he wasn’t that special to the next-door neighbor and his teachers. He grew into adulthood being disappointed that the world didn’t really care about meeting his every whim. He coveted me excessively and couldn’t stand for me to share my heart with anyone else. His jealousy turned into extreme narcissism, the perfect template for self-medication. Anything to feel better about himself and a perception that his shortcomings, rather than his gifts, were what the world saw. I have apologized 1000 times for the fact that I loved him too well. That I gave him splendid birthday parties and sleepovers and special weekends and bought everyone on his baseball team ice cream whether they won or lost. That I capitulated to his demands for label shoes and clothing. That I sacrificed my own needs and desires too many times. That I allowed him to play me, to verbally and psychologically abuse me, to lie repeatedly without calling him on it because I so wanted to believe in his goodness instead of his deliberate manipulation. Like this. JOURNAL ENTRY: April 12, 2003 It’s early on a Saturday morning and we’re having the typical Seth morning-after conversation of no-money-no-self-worth-no-hope-no-light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel. I listen patiently on the outside while my heart pounds. “I used to think the definition of hell would be to have to visit you in jail,” I responded. “But now I fear that instead you will force me to choose between you and your daughter.” Without hesitation he responds, “Of course, there’s no denying you have to choose Dani.” His eyes were bleak and empty. “I’m sorry, Mom. I really don’t know what else to say.” He began to lace up his winter boots with sharp movements, causing one lace to break and bit back a scream. “It’s not winter any longer. I need new work boots.” “Well, then, you better get them. If you don’t work,” I offered, “you can’t pay off your drug debts.” That made him laugh. “Good thinking. I’ll tell that to people I owe money to.” I chuckled at the dark humor as though it were an amusing private joke about some common acquaintance, held it together while we were speaking, wished him a good day as he left. The door clicked shut. I covered my face, leaned my forehead against the unforgiving cupboard door, and wept.