Livingwithwhit

Tag: parenting

  • Stolen Time

    I already know this topic is going to come with opinions—and that’s fine. People always have something to say when they’ve never lived it.

    In today’s world, it’s rare to meet someone who doesn’t have children. And when you step into a relationship like that, you don’t just fall in love with the person—you step into real-life dynamics, responsibilities, and sometimes… unnecessary chaos.

    I have searched my entire life for a certain kind of love.

    Not the kind that gives you anxiety.
    Not the kind that keeps you questioning everything.

    I’m talking about the kind of love that calms your soul.
    The kind that brings you back to yourself.
    The kind that reminds you—you are still worthy, still soft, still alive.

    And on January 23rd, I found that.

    But what I didn’t expect… was the reality that came with it.

    This man’s ex—the mother of his children—made it her mission to create disruption, confusion, and control. Despite them being separated for over two years.

    Let me be very clear about something—
    A father loving his children is not a threat.
    A father being present is not a problem.

    But somehow, the moment I entered the picture, everything changed.

    The same agreement that had been in place for years? Gone.

    The same consistent time he had with his boys? Reduced.

    And what’s worse… the children feel it.

    When a 7-year-old starts worrying about whether he’ll be “allowed” to see his dad… that’s not parenting—that’s emotional damage.

    That’s not protection—that’s control.

    Recently, it escalated even further.

    A Snapchat account placed on a child’s phone with location tracking.
    Late-night calls filled with chaos and demands.
    Messages sent to me filled with disrespect and delusion.

    And then yesterday—April 12, 2026—
    A welfare check was called on two children who were safe, loved, and exactly where they were supposed to be.

    A sheriff showed up at our home.

    After speaking with everyone involved, even the officer confirmed what we already knew—
    Those boys are safe. Those boys are happy.

    So the question becomes…

    At what point does “coparenting” turn into harassment?
    At what point does control start harming the very children you claim to protect?

    Because let’s be honest—
    Children don’t need tension.
    They don’t need manipulation.
    They don’t need to feel like love comes with conditions.

    They need peace. consistency. and both parents.

    And no amount of bitterness will ever justify taking that away from them

    Some women don’t fight for their children… they fight for control—and unfortunately, the children are the ones paying the price.

  • The Silent Screams of an Autism Mother!

    My mind never stops—and neither does the anxiety.
    Every day, I battle with the thoughts and the fears. At the beginning of this journey, I believed I was strong enough. I truly did. But I learned quickly that strength looks different when you’re living in survival mode.

    The first time my son eloped from our home, we were lucky—blessed—to find him instantly. The second time was different. We were at my brother’s house. It was raining, and we were saying our goodbyes, getting ready to leave.

    That’s when my sister-in-law said the words I’ll never forget:
    “Oh my gosh, where is Paxton?”

    I felt sick. My body moved before my mind even caught up. I ran. Out the door, into the rain, heart pounding, breath ragged, screaming his name into the wind—knowing he couldn’t respond.
    Because Paxton is nonverbal.

    Ten minutes.
    We searched for ten excruciating minutes. The longest ten minutes of my life. I was living in a different reality, one where every second was a scream. Every second was a prayer. Every second was a fear I couldn’t face.

    And then, we found him.
    Behind the house. Sitting in the mud, playing in the rainwater.

    My sister-in-law spotted him, but I was the one who scooped him into my arms. He was soaked and filthy, and I didn’t care. I held my baby and thanked God over and over again.

    The neighbors had seen him leave. They watched him walk off barefoot in the rain and said nothing. “He went left,” they told us. I guess they thought it was normal for a three-year-old to wander the streets alone in a storm.

    It’s not.
    But this is our reality.

    Paxton is a runner.
    He loves being outside.
    He especially loves water—an obsession that terrifies me. Drowning is the leading cause of death for children with autism. I know this. My brain doesn’t let me forget.

    We’ve locked our house down like a fortress—chain locks high on every door, child-proof knobs, constant vigilance. Still, I lie awake every night, thinking of new ways to keep him safe. Running on fumes. Running on fear.

    Paxton is smart—too smart sometimes. He figures things out in ways that leave me one step behind. That scares me more than anything.

    So I pray.
    I pray for stillness in my soul, for quiet in my thoughts, for strength to keep showing up.

    But the silent screams still come.
    They rise up when I’m alone. When I’m exhausted. When I wonder if I can really do this for the rest of my life. When the depression creeps in and whispers, “Why me?”

    And then…
    Then Paxton smiles.

    That smile brings me back.
    It reminds me that I am doing a good job.
    That love is stronger than fear.
    That I’m not alone in this, even when it feels like I am.

    This journey is hard.
    This journey is lonely.
    But I will not give up.

    Even when the screams are louder than the silence.