- ข้อความ
- ประวัติศาสตร์
Of all the difficult parts of paren
Of all the difficult parts of parenting, the hardest for me (and for many people, I think) is not the fatigue or time drain or chaos of family life, but the inability to ensure that nothing terrible will ever happen to my children. This desire to prevent suffering in one’s kids is stronger than the desire to breathe, stronger than my most basic human instincts. And yet, no matter how strong the desire, none of us can do it. We just can’t.
Every day it seems there is less we can control about their future. The schools are failing, the middle class is vanishing, super-bugs grow stronger and antibiotics weaker. The seasons are slipping and I might not recognize the climate of the planet my kids will come of age in. College education floats further out of reach. Guns are everywhere. People are often angry and suspicious. Our food makes us fat and sick.
I can’t control any of this, so my grip tightens on what I think I can control, on everything within reach. And yet no matter how firmly I grasp, nothing anyone does can change the fact that sometimes, children get sick and die, or are killed in car accidents, or drowned in swimming pools when our backs are turned for just a second. Sometimes they go to the doctor with a cut on the leg and expire a few days later of blood poisoning. Sometimes they’re shot in schools, or become addicted to drugs or take their own lives. These occurrences are not common, but they happen, and we hear of them, and because we cannot imagine anything worse, we say, not to me, not to my child. It’s not going to happen to me.
Every year, 30 to 40 children, usually under the age of 6, die after being left alone in cars. Their deaths (usually by suffocation), are slow, torturous, unspeakably tragic. In some instances, they are the result of clear-cut neglect, but more often, they occur because of a change in routine — usually the father drops off at daycare but today it’s the mom and she is tired or harried and forgets the kid is with her and leaves him there for hours. I was aware of these tragedies long before the day I left my son, because, like most anxious, at times over-protective mothers, I spend a not insignificant portion of my time reading about and thinking about and worrying about all the terrible things that can happen to the two little people I’ve devoted my life to protecting.
I know that on a 75-degree day, a closed car can become an oven. I know that a home with an unfenced swimming pool is as dangerous as one with a loaded gun. I know how important it is to install car seats correctly, to adjust and fasten the straps regularly. When my kids were babies I always put them to sleep on their backs, though they hated it. I treated small, chokeable objects like arsenic, put up gates on all our stairways (not the tension-rod kind that can be pushed over, but the kind you bolt into the wall). I immunized them against everything immunizable, sliced their hotdogs lengthwise and removed the casing, made sure their plates and cups were BPA free, limited their screen time, slathered them in sunscreen on sunny days. When my more carefree friends say things like, “What’s the worst that could happen?” I usually have an answer. Sometimes I fantasized about moving with my family to a sun-drenched island in the Mediterranean where my children could spend their days frolicking freely on the beach without worry of speeding cars or communicable diseases, but I never confuse this fantasy with the reality we live in, the reality of risk and danger, the reality that terrible things happen to good, well-meaning people every second of every day.
And so, it came as more than a shock to me when, on the way home from the airport, I listened to a voice mail from an officer at my family’s local police department explaining that a bystander had noticed me leaving my son in the car, had recorded the incident using a phone’s camera, and had then contacted the police. By the time the police arrived, I had already left the scene, and by the time they looked up the license plate number of the minivan and traced it to my parents, I was flying home.
I’d never been charged with a crime before, so the weeks that followed were pure improvisation. I hired a lawyer to talk to the police on my behalf. I sought advice and support from those I loved and trusted. I tried to stay calm. My lawyer told me he’d had a productive conversation with the officer involved, that he’d explained I was a loving and responsible mother who’d had a “lapse in judgment,” and that it seemed quite possible charges would not be pressed. For a while, it looked like he was right. But nine months later, a few minutes after dropping my kids off at school, I was walking to a coffee shop when my cellphone rang. Another officer asked if I was Kim Brooks and if I was aware there was a warrant out for my arrest.
Every day it seems there is less we can control about their future. The schools are failing, the middle class is vanishing, super-bugs grow stronger and antibiotics weaker. The seasons are slipping and I might not recognize the climate of the planet my kids will come of age in. College education floats further out of reach. Guns are everywhere. People are often angry and suspicious. Our food makes us fat and sick.
I can’t control any of this, so my grip tightens on what I think I can control, on everything within reach. And yet no matter how firmly I grasp, nothing anyone does can change the fact that sometimes, children get sick and die, or are killed in car accidents, or drowned in swimming pools when our backs are turned for just a second. Sometimes they go to the doctor with a cut on the leg and expire a few days later of blood poisoning. Sometimes they’re shot in schools, or become addicted to drugs or take their own lives. These occurrences are not common, but they happen, and we hear of them, and because we cannot imagine anything worse, we say, not to me, not to my child. It’s not going to happen to me.
Every year, 30 to 40 children, usually under the age of 6, die after being left alone in cars. Their deaths (usually by suffocation), are slow, torturous, unspeakably tragic. In some instances, they are the result of clear-cut neglect, but more often, they occur because of a change in routine — usually the father drops off at daycare but today it’s the mom and she is tired or harried and forgets the kid is with her and leaves him there for hours. I was aware of these tragedies long before the day I left my son, because, like most anxious, at times over-protective mothers, I spend a not insignificant portion of my time reading about and thinking about and worrying about all the terrible things that can happen to the two little people I’ve devoted my life to protecting.
I know that on a 75-degree day, a closed car can become an oven. I know that a home with an unfenced swimming pool is as dangerous as one with a loaded gun. I know how important it is to install car seats correctly, to adjust and fasten the straps regularly. When my kids were babies I always put them to sleep on their backs, though they hated it. I treated small, chokeable objects like arsenic, put up gates on all our stairways (not the tension-rod kind that can be pushed over, but the kind you bolt into the wall). I immunized them against everything immunizable, sliced their hotdogs lengthwise and removed the casing, made sure their plates and cups were BPA free, limited their screen time, slathered them in sunscreen on sunny days. When my more carefree friends say things like, “What’s the worst that could happen?” I usually have an answer. Sometimes I fantasized about moving with my family to a sun-drenched island in the Mediterranean where my children could spend their days frolicking freely on the beach without worry of speeding cars or communicable diseases, but I never confuse this fantasy with the reality we live in, the reality of risk and danger, the reality that terrible things happen to good, well-meaning people every second of every day.
And so, it came as more than a shock to me when, on the way home from the airport, I listened to a voice mail from an officer at my family’s local police department explaining that a bystander had noticed me leaving my son in the car, had recorded the incident using a phone’s camera, and had then contacted the police. By the time the police arrived, I had already left the scene, and by the time they looked up the license plate number of the minivan and traced it to my parents, I was flying home.
I’d never been charged with a crime before, so the weeks that followed were pure improvisation. I hired a lawyer to talk to the police on my behalf. I sought advice and support from those I loved and trusted. I tried to stay calm. My lawyer told me he’d had a productive conversation with the officer involved, that he’d explained I was a loving and responsible mother who’d had a “lapse in judgment,” and that it seemed quite possible charges would not be pressed. For a while, it looked like he was right. But nine months later, a few minutes after dropping my kids off at school, I was walking to a coffee shop when my cellphone rang. Another officer asked if I was Kim Brooks and if I was aware there was a warrant out for my arrest.
0/5000
Of all the difficult parts of parenting, the hardest for me (and for many people, I think) is not the fatigue or time drain or chaos of family life, but the inability to ensure that nothing terrible will ever happen to my children. This desire to prevent suffering in one’s kids is stronger than the desire to breathe, stronger than my most basic human instincts. And yet, no matter how strong the desire, none of us can do it. We just can’t.Every day it seems there is less we can control about their future. The schools are failing, the middle class is vanishing, super-bugs grow stronger and antibiotics weaker. The seasons are slipping and I might not recognize the climate of the planet my kids will come of age in. College education floats further out of reach. Guns are everywhere. People are often angry and suspicious. Our food makes us fat and sick.I can’t control any of this, so my grip tightens on what I think I can control, on everything within reach. And yet no matter how firmly I grasp, nothing anyone does can change the fact that sometimes, children get sick and die, or are killed in car accidents, or drowned in swimming pools when our backs are turned for just a second. Sometimes they go to the doctor with a cut on the leg and expire a few days later of blood poisoning. Sometimes they’re shot in schools, or become addicted to drugs or take their own lives. These occurrences are not common, but they happen, and we hear of them, and because we cannot imagine anything worse, we say, not to me, not to my child. It’s not going to happen to me.
Every year, 30 to 40 children, usually under the age of 6, die after being left alone in cars. Their deaths (usually by suffocation), are slow, torturous, unspeakably tragic. In some instances, they are the result of clear-cut neglect, but more often, they occur because of a change in routine — usually the father drops off at daycare but today it’s the mom and she is tired or harried and forgets the kid is with her and leaves him there for hours. I was aware of these tragedies long before the day I left my son, because, like most anxious, at times over-protective mothers, I spend a not insignificant portion of my time reading about and thinking about and worrying about all the terrible things that can happen to the two little people I’ve devoted my life to protecting.
I know that on a 75-degree day, a closed car can become an oven. I know that a home with an unfenced swimming pool is as dangerous as one with a loaded gun. I know how important it is to install car seats correctly, to adjust and fasten the straps regularly. When my kids were babies I always put them to sleep on their backs, though they hated it. I treated small, chokeable objects like arsenic, put up gates on all our stairways (not the tension-rod kind that can be pushed over, but the kind you bolt into the wall). I immunized them against everything immunizable, sliced their hotdogs lengthwise and removed the casing, made sure their plates and cups were BPA free, limited their screen time, slathered them in sunscreen on sunny days. When my more carefree friends say things like, “What’s the worst that could happen?” I usually have an answer. Sometimes I fantasized about moving with my family to a sun-drenched island in the Mediterranean where my children could spend their days frolicking freely on the beach without worry of speeding cars or communicable diseases, but I never confuse this fantasy with the reality we live in, the reality of risk and danger, the reality that terrible things happen to good, well-meaning people every second of every day.
And so, it came as more than a shock to me when, on the way home from the airport, I listened to a voice mail from an officer at my family’s local police department explaining that a bystander had noticed me leaving my son in the car, had recorded the incident using a phone’s camera, and had then contacted the police. By the time the police arrived, I had already left the scene, and by the time they looked up the license plate number of the minivan and traced it to my parents, I was flying home.
I’d never been charged with a crime before, so the weeks that followed were pure improvisation. I hired a lawyer to talk to the police on my behalf. I sought advice and support from those I loved and trusted. I tried to stay calm. My lawyer told me he’d had a productive conversation with the officer involved, that he’d explained I was a loving and responsible mother who’d had a “lapse in judgment,” and that it seemed quite possible charges would not be pressed. For a while, it looked like he was right. But nine months later, a few minutes after dropping my kids off at school, I was walking to a coffee shop when my cellphone rang. Another officer asked if I was Kim Brooks and if I was aware there was a warrant out for my arrest.
Every year, 30 to 40 children, usually under the age of 6, die after being left alone in cars. Their deaths (usually by suffocation), are slow, torturous, unspeakably tragic. In some instances, they are the result of clear-cut neglect, but more often, they occur because of a change in routine — usually the father drops off at daycare but today it’s the mom and she is tired or harried and forgets the kid is with her and leaves him there for hours. I was aware of these tragedies long before the day I left my son, because, like most anxious, at times over-protective mothers, I spend a not insignificant portion of my time reading about and thinking about and worrying about all the terrible things that can happen to the two little people I’ve devoted my life to protecting.
I know that on a 75-degree day, a closed car can become an oven. I know that a home with an unfenced swimming pool is as dangerous as one with a loaded gun. I know how important it is to install car seats correctly, to adjust and fasten the straps regularly. When my kids were babies I always put them to sleep on their backs, though they hated it. I treated small, chokeable objects like arsenic, put up gates on all our stairways (not the tension-rod kind that can be pushed over, but the kind you bolt into the wall). I immunized them against everything immunizable, sliced their hotdogs lengthwise and removed the casing, made sure their plates and cups were BPA free, limited their screen time, slathered them in sunscreen on sunny days. When my more carefree friends say things like, “What’s the worst that could happen?” I usually have an answer. Sometimes I fantasized about moving with my family to a sun-drenched island in the Mediterranean where my children could spend their days frolicking freely on the beach without worry of speeding cars or communicable diseases, but I never confuse this fantasy with the reality we live in, the reality of risk and danger, the reality that terrible things happen to good, well-meaning people every second of every day.
And so, it came as more than a shock to me when, on the way home from the airport, I listened to a voice mail from an officer at my family’s local police department explaining that a bystander had noticed me leaving my son in the car, had recorded the incident using a phone’s camera, and had then contacted the police. By the time the police arrived, I had already left the scene, and by the time they looked up the license plate number of the minivan and traced it to my parents, I was flying home.
I’d never been charged with a crime before, so the weeks that followed were pure improvisation. I hired a lawyer to talk to the police on my behalf. I sought advice and support from those I loved and trusted. I tried to stay calm. My lawyer told me he’d had a productive conversation with the officer involved, that he’d explained I was a loving and responsible mother who’d had a “lapse in judgment,” and that it seemed quite possible charges would not be pressed. For a while, it looked like he was right. But nine months later, a few minutes after dropping my kids off at school, I was walking to a coffee shop when my cellphone rang. Another officer asked if I was Kim Brooks and if I was aware there was a warrant out for my arrest.
การแปล กรุณารอสักครู่..
Of all the difficult parts of parenting, the hardest for me (and for many people, I think) is not the fatigue or time drain or chaos of family life, but the inability to ensure that nothing terrible will ever happen to my children. This desire to prevent suffering in one’s kids is stronger than the desire to breathe, stronger than my most basic human instincts. And yet, no matter how strong the desire, none of us can do it. We just can’t.
Every day it seems there is less we can control about their future. The schools are failing, the middle class is vanishing, super-bugs grow stronger and antibiotics weaker. The seasons are slipping and I might not recognize the climate of the planet my kids will come of age in. College education floats further out of reach. Guns are everywhere. People are often angry and suspicious. Our food makes us fat and sick.
I can’t control any of this, so my grip tightens on what I think I can control, on everything within reach. And yet no matter how firmly I grasp, nothing anyone does can change the fact that sometimes, children get sick and die, or are killed in car accidents, or drowned in swimming pools when our backs are turned for just a second. Sometimes they go to the doctor with a cut on the leg and expire a few days later of blood poisoning. Sometimes they’re shot in schools, or become addicted to drugs or take their own lives. These occurrences are not common, but they happen, and we hear of them, and because we cannot imagine anything worse, we say, not to me, not to my child. It’s not going to happen to me.
Every year, 30 to 40 children, usually under the age of 6, die after being left alone in cars. Their deaths (usually by suffocation), are slow, torturous, unspeakably tragic. In some instances, they are the result of clear-cut neglect, but more often, they occur because of a change in routine — usually the father drops off at daycare but today it’s the mom and she is tired or harried and forgets the kid is with her and leaves him there for hours. I was aware of these tragedies long before the day I left my son, because, like most anxious, at times over-protective mothers, I spend a not insignificant portion of my time reading about and thinking about and worrying about all the terrible things that can happen to the two little people I’ve devoted my life to protecting.
I know that on a 75-degree day, a closed car can become an oven. I know that a home with an unfenced swimming pool is as dangerous as one with a loaded gun. I know how important it is to install car seats correctly, to adjust and fasten the straps regularly. When my kids were babies I always put them to sleep on their backs, though they hated it. I treated small, chokeable objects like arsenic, put up gates on all our stairways (not the tension-rod kind that can be pushed over, but the kind you bolt into the wall). I immunized them against everything immunizable, sliced their hotdogs lengthwise and removed the casing, made sure their plates and cups were BPA free, limited their screen time, slathered them in sunscreen on sunny days. When my more carefree friends say things like, “What’s the worst that could happen?” I usually have an answer. Sometimes I fantasized about moving with my family to a sun-drenched island in the Mediterranean where my children could spend their days frolicking freely on the beach without worry of speeding cars or communicable diseases, but I never confuse this fantasy with the reality we live in, the reality of risk and danger, the reality that terrible things happen to good, well-meaning people every second of every day.
And so, it came as more than a shock to me when, on the way home from the airport, I listened to a voice mail from an officer at my family’s local police department explaining that a bystander had noticed me leaving my son in the car, had recorded the incident using a phone’s camera, and had then contacted the police. By the time the police arrived, I had already left the scene, and by the time they looked up the license plate number of the minivan and traced it to my parents, I was flying home.
I’d never been charged with a crime before, so the weeks that followed were pure improvisation. I hired a lawyer to talk to the police on my behalf. I sought advice and support from those I loved and trusted. I tried to stay calm. My lawyer told me he’d had a productive conversation with the officer involved, that he’d explained I was a loving and responsible mother who’d had a “lapse in judgment,” and that it seemed quite possible charges would not be pressed. For a while, it looked like he was right. But nine months later, a few minutes after dropping my kids off at school, I was walking to a coffee shop when my cellphone rang. Another officer asked if I was Kim Brooks and if I was aware there was a warrant out for my arrest.
Every day it seems there is less we can control about their future. The schools are failing, the middle class is vanishing, super-bugs grow stronger and antibiotics weaker. The seasons are slipping and I might not recognize the climate of the planet my kids will come of age in. College education floats further out of reach. Guns are everywhere. People are often angry and suspicious. Our food makes us fat and sick.
I can’t control any of this, so my grip tightens on what I think I can control, on everything within reach. And yet no matter how firmly I grasp, nothing anyone does can change the fact that sometimes, children get sick and die, or are killed in car accidents, or drowned in swimming pools when our backs are turned for just a second. Sometimes they go to the doctor with a cut on the leg and expire a few days later of blood poisoning. Sometimes they’re shot in schools, or become addicted to drugs or take their own lives. These occurrences are not common, but they happen, and we hear of them, and because we cannot imagine anything worse, we say, not to me, not to my child. It’s not going to happen to me.
Every year, 30 to 40 children, usually under the age of 6, die after being left alone in cars. Their deaths (usually by suffocation), are slow, torturous, unspeakably tragic. In some instances, they are the result of clear-cut neglect, but more often, they occur because of a change in routine — usually the father drops off at daycare but today it’s the mom and she is tired or harried and forgets the kid is with her and leaves him there for hours. I was aware of these tragedies long before the day I left my son, because, like most anxious, at times over-protective mothers, I spend a not insignificant portion of my time reading about and thinking about and worrying about all the terrible things that can happen to the two little people I’ve devoted my life to protecting.
I know that on a 75-degree day, a closed car can become an oven. I know that a home with an unfenced swimming pool is as dangerous as one with a loaded gun. I know how important it is to install car seats correctly, to adjust and fasten the straps regularly. When my kids were babies I always put them to sleep on their backs, though they hated it. I treated small, chokeable objects like arsenic, put up gates on all our stairways (not the tension-rod kind that can be pushed over, but the kind you bolt into the wall). I immunized them against everything immunizable, sliced their hotdogs lengthwise and removed the casing, made sure their plates and cups were BPA free, limited their screen time, slathered them in sunscreen on sunny days. When my more carefree friends say things like, “What’s the worst that could happen?” I usually have an answer. Sometimes I fantasized about moving with my family to a sun-drenched island in the Mediterranean where my children could spend their days frolicking freely on the beach without worry of speeding cars or communicable diseases, but I never confuse this fantasy with the reality we live in, the reality of risk and danger, the reality that terrible things happen to good, well-meaning people every second of every day.
And so, it came as more than a shock to me when, on the way home from the airport, I listened to a voice mail from an officer at my family’s local police department explaining that a bystander had noticed me leaving my son in the car, had recorded the incident using a phone’s camera, and had then contacted the police. By the time the police arrived, I had already left the scene, and by the time they looked up the license plate number of the minivan and traced it to my parents, I was flying home.
I’d never been charged with a crime before, so the weeks that followed were pure improvisation. I hired a lawyer to talk to the police on my behalf. I sought advice and support from those I loved and trusted. I tried to stay calm. My lawyer told me he’d had a productive conversation with the officer involved, that he’d explained I was a loving and responsible mother who’d had a “lapse in judgment,” and that it seemed quite possible charges would not be pressed. For a while, it looked like he was right. But nine months later, a few minutes after dropping my kids off at school, I was walking to a coffee shop when my cellphone rang. Another officer asked if I was Kim Brooks and if I was aware there was a warrant out for my arrest.
การแปล กรุณารอสักครู่..
ทุกส่วนที่ยากของ parenting , ที่ยากที่สุดสำหรับผม ( และอีกหลายคน ผมคิดว่า ) จะไม่เหนื่อยล้า หรือเวลาระบายหรือความวุ่นวายของชีวิตครอบครัว แต่ไม่สามารถที่จะแน่ใจว่าไม่มีอะไรร้ายแรงจะเกิดขึ้นกับลูกของฉัน ความปรารถนาที่จะป้องกันไม่ให้ทุกข์ ในหนึ่งเป็นเด็กแข็งแรงกว่าความปรารถนาที่จะหายใจ แข็งแกร่งกว่าสัญชาตญาณพื้นฐานที่สุดของมนุษย์ และยังได้ไม่ว่าแรงปรารถนา ไม่มีใครสามารถทำมันได้ เราก็ทำไม่ได้
ทุกวันมันมีน้อย เราจะสามารถควบคุมเกี่ยวกับอนาคตของพวกเขา โรงเรียนกำลังล้มเหลว ชนชั้นกลางกำลังหายไป แมลง ซุปเปอร์แข็งแกร่ง และยาปฏิชีวนะที่แข็งแกร่ง . ฤดูกาลที่มีการลื่นไถลและฉันอาจไม่รับรู้บรรยากาศของดาวเคราะห์เด็กของฉันจะมาอายุใน วิทยาลัยการศึกษาลอยไกลออกไปถึงปืนอยู่เต็มไปหมด คนมักโกรธและสงสัย อาหารที่ทำให้เราอ้วน และป่วย
ฉันไม่สามารถควบคุมใด ๆ นี้ เพื่อ กระชับมือของฉันเกี่ยวกับสิ่งที่ฉันคิดว่าฉันสามารถควบคุมทุกอย่างในการเข้าถึง แต่ไม่ว่าอย่างไรให้ผมเข้าใจ ไม่มีอะไร ทุกคนจะสามารถเปลี่ยนความจริงที่ว่า บางครั้ง เด็ก ป่วย และตาย หรือถูกฆ่าตายในอุบัติเหตุรถยนต์หรือจมน้ำตายในสระว่ายน้ำเมื่อให้จะเปิดแค่แป๊บเดียว บางครั้งพวกเขาไปพบแพทย์ด้วยการตัดขา และหมดอายุกี่วันต่อมาเลือดเป็นพิษ บางครั้งพวกเขาก็ยิงในโรงเรียน หรือกลายเป็นติดยาเสพติด หรือใช้ชีวิตของตัวเอง เหตุการณ์เหล่านี้จะไม่ทั่วไป แต่พวกเขาเกิดขึ้นและเราได้ยินเสียงของพวกเขา และเนื่องจากเราไม่สามารถนึกอะไรแย่ เราว่าไม่ใช่ผม ไม่ใช่ลูกของฉัน มันจะไม่เกิดขึ้นกับฉัน
ทุกๆปี 30 ถึง 40 ลูก ปกติอายุ 6 ตายหลังจากถูกทิ้งให้อยู่คนเดียวในรถ ความตายของพวกเขา ( มักจะโดยการหายใจไม่ออก ) ช้า ทรมานจนพูดไม่ออก , เศร้า ในบางกรณีที่พวกเขาจะมีผลชัดเจนละเลย แต่บ่อย ๆมันเกิดขึ้นเพราะการเปลี่ยนแปลงในขั้นตอนปกติ พ่อหยอดปิดที่สถานเลี้ยงเด็ก แต่วันนี้มันเป็นแม่แล้วเธอเหนื่อยหรือ harried และลืมเด็กนั่นกับเธอ และทิ้งเขาไว้ที่นั่นเป็นชั่วโมง ผมตระหนักถึงโศกนาฏกรรมเหล่านี้นานวันฉันทิ้งลูกชาย เพราะชอบวิตกกังวลมากที่สุด หลายครั้งที่กว่ามารดาที่ป้องกันผมใช้เวลาส่วนใหญ่ของเวลาของฉันไม่ไม่อ่านและคิดและกังวลเกี่ยวกับสิ่งที่น่ากลัวที่สามารถเกิดขึ้นกับอีก 2 คน ฉันอุทิศชีวิตเพื่อปกป้อง
ฉันรู้ว่าในวันที่ 75 องศา รถปิดจะกลายเป็นเตาอบ ฉันรู้ว่าบ้านที่มีสระว่าย unfenced คืออันตรายเช่นเดียวกับปืนฉันรู้ว่าวิธีการที่สำคัญก็คือการติดตั้งที่นั่งรถอย่างถูกต้อง การปรับ และยึดสายเป็นประจำ เมื่อลูกเป็นเด็กเสมอ ให้นอนบนหลังของพวกเขา แต่พวกเขาไม่ชอบมัน ผมถือว่าเล็ก วัตถุ chokeable เช่นสารหนู , วางประตูบนบันไดทั้งหมดของเรา ( ไม่แรงเหล็กชนิดที่สามารถผลัก แต่ชนิดที่คุณสายฟ้าเข้าไปในผนัง )
ทุกวันมันมีน้อย เราจะสามารถควบคุมเกี่ยวกับอนาคตของพวกเขา โรงเรียนกำลังล้มเหลว ชนชั้นกลางกำลังหายไป แมลง ซุปเปอร์แข็งแกร่ง และยาปฏิชีวนะที่แข็งแกร่ง . ฤดูกาลที่มีการลื่นไถลและฉันอาจไม่รับรู้บรรยากาศของดาวเคราะห์เด็กของฉันจะมาอายุใน วิทยาลัยการศึกษาลอยไกลออกไปถึงปืนอยู่เต็มไปหมด คนมักโกรธและสงสัย อาหารที่ทำให้เราอ้วน และป่วย
ฉันไม่สามารถควบคุมใด ๆ นี้ เพื่อ กระชับมือของฉันเกี่ยวกับสิ่งที่ฉันคิดว่าฉันสามารถควบคุมทุกอย่างในการเข้าถึง แต่ไม่ว่าอย่างไรให้ผมเข้าใจ ไม่มีอะไร ทุกคนจะสามารถเปลี่ยนความจริงที่ว่า บางครั้ง เด็ก ป่วย และตาย หรือถูกฆ่าตายในอุบัติเหตุรถยนต์หรือจมน้ำตายในสระว่ายน้ำเมื่อให้จะเปิดแค่แป๊บเดียว บางครั้งพวกเขาไปพบแพทย์ด้วยการตัดขา และหมดอายุกี่วันต่อมาเลือดเป็นพิษ บางครั้งพวกเขาก็ยิงในโรงเรียน หรือกลายเป็นติดยาเสพติด หรือใช้ชีวิตของตัวเอง เหตุการณ์เหล่านี้จะไม่ทั่วไป แต่พวกเขาเกิดขึ้นและเราได้ยินเสียงของพวกเขา และเนื่องจากเราไม่สามารถนึกอะไรแย่ เราว่าไม่ใช่ผม ไม่ใช่ลูกของฉัน มันจะไม่เกิดขึ้นกับฉัน
ทุกๆปี 30 ถึง 40 ลูก ปกติอายุ 6 ตายหลังจากถูกทิ้งให้อยู่คนเดียวในรถ ความตายของพวกเขา ( มักจะโดยการหายใจไม่ออก ) ช้า ทรมานจนพูดไม่ออก , เศร้า ในบางกรณีที่พวกเขาจะมีผลชัดเจนละเลย แต่บ่อย ๆมันเกิดขึ้นเพราะการเปลี่ยนแปลงในขั้นตอนปกติ พ่อหยอดปิดที่สถานเลี้ยงเด็ก แต่วันนี้มันเป็นแม่แล้วเธอเหนื่อยหรือ harried และลืมเด็กนั่นกับเธอ และทิ้งเขาไว้ที่นั่นเป็นชั่วโมง ผมตระหนักถึงโศกนาฏกรรมเหล่านี้นานวันฉันทิ้งลูกชาย เพราะชอบวิตกกังวลมากที่สุด หลายครั้งที่กว่ามารดาที่ป้องกันผมใช้เวลาส่วนใหญ่ของเวลาของฉันไม่ไม่อ่านและคิดและกังวลเกี่ยวกับสิ่งที่น่ากลัวที่สามารถเกิดขึ้นกับอีก 2 คน ฉันอุทิศชีวิตเพื่อปกป้อง
ฉันรู้ว่าในวันที่ 75 องศา รถปิดจะกลายเป็นเตาอบ ฉันรู้ว่าบ้านที่มีสระว่าย unfenced คืออันตรายเช่นเดียวกับปืนฉันรู้ว่าวิธีการที่สำคัญก็คือการติดตั้งที่นั่งรถอย่างถูกต้อง การปรับ และยึดสายเป็นประจำ เมื่อลูกเป็นเด็กเสมอ ให้นอนบนหลังของพวกเขา แต่พวกเขาไม่ชอบมัน ผมถือว่าเล็ก วัตถุ chokeable เช่นสารหนู , วางประตูบนบันไดทั้งหมดของเรา ( ไม่แรงเหล็กชนิดที่สามารถผลัก แต่ชนิดที่คุณสายฟ้าเข้าไปในผนัง )
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ภาษาอื่น ๆ
การสนับสนุนเครื่องมือแปลภาษา: กรีก, กันนาดา, กาลิเชียน, คลิงออน, คอร์สิกา, คาซัค, คาตาลัน, คินยารวันดา, คีร์กิซ, คุชราต, จอร์เจีย, จีน, จีนดั้งเดิม, ชวา, ชิเชวา, ซามัว, ซีบัวโน, ซุนดา, ซูลู, ญี่ปุ่น, ดัตช์, ตรวจหาภาษา, ตุรกี, ทมิฬ, ทาจิก, ทาทาร์, นอร์เวย์, บอสเนีย, บัลแกเรีย, บาสก์, ปัญจาป, ฝรั่งเศส, พาชตู, ฟริเชียน, ฟินแลนด์, ฟิลิปปินส์, ภาษาอินโดนีเซี, มองโกเลีย, มัลทีส, มาซีโดเนีย, มาราฐี, มาลากาซี, มาลายาลัม, มาเลย์, ม้ง, ยิดดิช, ยูเครน, รัสเซีย, ละติน, ลักเซมเบิร์ก, ลัตเวีย, ลาว, ลิทัวเนีย, สวาฮิลี, สวีเดน, สิงหล, สินธี, สเปน, สโลวัก, สโลวีเนีย, อังกฤษ, อัมฮาริก, อาร์เซอร์ไบจัน, อาร์เมเนีย, อาหรับ, อิกโบ, อิตาลี, อุยกูร์, อุสเบกิสถาน, อูรดู, ฮังการี, ฮัวซา, ฮาวาย, ฮินดี, ฮีบรู, เกลิกสกอต, เกาหลี, เขมร, เคิร์ด, เช็ก, เซอร์เบียน, เซโซโท, เดนมาร์ก, เตลูกู, เติร์กเมน, เนปาล, เบงกอล, เบลารุส, เปอร์เซีย, เมารี, เมียนมา (พม่า), เยอรมัน, เวลส์, เวียดนาม, เอสเปอแรนโต, เอสโทเนีย, เฮติครีโอล, แอฟริกา, แอลเบเนีย, โคซา, โครเอเชีย, โชนา, โซมาลี, โปรตุเกส, โปแลนด์, โยรูบา, โรมาเนีย, โอเดีย (โอริยา), ไทย, ไอซ์แลนด์, ไอร์แลนด์, การแปลภาษา.
- อะไรคือแรงบันดาลใจให้คุณคิดแบบนั้น
- นี่กระเป๋าคุณไหม
- What the hell
- Please wait for me ok
- Because its Same as me
- ภาษาเกาหลีมันยากสำหรับฉันมาก
- Try to each province. Then You'll love t
- ฉันอยากเป็นเพื่อนกับคุณมาก แต่ฉันพูดอังก
- พระบาทสมเด็จพระเจ้าอยู่หัว ได้ทรงคิดโครง
- I think first thing come to My mind when
- have i ruind all you've given me
- ฉันตอนนอนตอน 11 โมงเช้าจากนั้นก็อาบน้ำแล
- He wants to settle down and have his own
- เพื่อช่วยเหลือเกษตรกรที่มีฐานะยากจนไม่มี
- แปลเอกสาร
- Like lady yak yak too much mhhhh
- มันคือชายทะเล
- กำลังกินอยู่
- dorm
- ผลลัพธ์ (ภาษาอังกฤษ) 1:There is 1 car th
- คุณกำลังทำอะไร
- แม่ของฉันจะไปเยี่ยมผู้ป่วย และฉันไม่ต้อง
- เชื่อฟังคำสั่งสอนของพ่อแม่และครู อาจารย์
- ฉันรู้ว่าคุณตั้งใจทำมัน
