I couldn’t sleep without the steady consistent pats they use to put babies to sleep. I was so frustrated, I lifted my own hand high up in the air, and swung it down onto my little bum. It served well enough as a way to rock myself to sleep. I start swinging my palm down harder, making noise all the more pronounced. Every hit was a punishment not to myself, but to my mother. Can’t you see your daughter struggling, quickly come help. Thinking over it, this must’ve been one of the earliest memories belying my nature as an M.

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