Looking back, I suppose it was a sign of things to come, but this knowledge then wouldn’t have made me run. My fiery youth would still run off both anticipating grandmas, out of the delivery room, as they argued and demanded a Priest, no a Rabbi, come… save me from my doom.

Brushing that judgement aside, focusing instead on my anxious creation inside, I set a precedent of preferring to hide, but as the door was closing, “Don’t judge me”, I cried.

Spoiled tantrums I was told I was only feeding, my comfort now turning into a future needing, but the piercing screams of “crying it out” never did subside...