(Q).
As a mother, I'm right now navigating the hardest moment with my two daughters and my son I was raped at 15 and molested by a teacher from 1516 it took 13 years of fighting before I saw any justice for those crimes and it paled in comparison to having to live with that trauma for the last 25 years. I thought I had moved past it for the most part, thanks to supportive family and lots of counseling and medication to treat my treatment resistant depression I've struggled over the last 25 years. I will be 40 this year. My son, the oldest, turned 15 this year the same age I was when it began. I see how young he is and recognized for the first time just how young I had been when I was abused. That was really hard for me, emotionally. Now, I look at my two girls, ages 9 and 3, and worry for their safety - probably more than I should, but understandable given what I went through. We have had lots of "body safety" talks and my older daughter understands the very basics of what I went through, mainly because I have spent a great part of this past year writing a memoir about my experiences and have begun speaking publicly about what I went through and what it means to be a survivor. This is challenging because it's hard to talk about and explain to a child in a way that they understand without making them fear the world. I struggle with this often. I've chosen to use it as an opportunity to teach them about activism and the power of speaking the truth, what it means to be a survivor instead of a victim. I hope they grow up and see just how strong their mother is and how she has worked in the community to raise awareness and help others. How long has the author been working with the community? A. twenty weeks B. several years C. two months D. not enough information
(A).
B

(Q).
Hmmm that's a hard one. At first I was going to say giving them daily chores, but the "reward" part of that has actually not been realized yet (what with all the eye rolling and such). So I will have to go with family dinners at the table. Sometimes, "dinner" is fast food, sometimes it is a meal I slaved over for hours - that part doesn't seem to matter. Whether we are talking about our day, learning manners, having serious discussions, or laughing until we spit our drinks - it is where grow. There have been horrible nights at the table, where we shared bad news. There have been fabulous nights where we celebrated successes and talked about exciting things to come. There have been nights where the kids can see that Mom and Dad are "at odds" and nights where they see us push that aside and joke with each other for the sake of saving the evening. When they were little, we did "About Your Day" - one funny thing, one sad thing, one new thing you learned. Now, they are all teenagers, and the conversations just seem to flow, with never enough time to fit it all in before someone has to rush off to work, to study, or to get ready for bed because we are eating "after practice". My twins will be Seniors next year, and I know that our table will look a little different from now on. But when I look at that worn oak (outdated) table, that needs refinishing in the worst way - I am grateful for the evenings there, where my kiddos learned to be a family. Don't be misled, we are not the Cleavers. We have "Fun Friday" where Mom does not get to badger them about their table manners (ugh - they revel in this), Sometimes we eat in the living room while we watch a movie, sometimes we eat in shifts because of our schedules. However, the majority of meals have been together ~ I feel like this is a gift we gave them. The narrator believes: A. Her children know how to behave and act like a family. B. not enough information C. Her children will grow up to be dysfunctional. D. Her children will continue to act as they were when they were younger.
(A).
A

(Q).
A long time ago, when humans still lived in cities, on a cold morning near the end of a long, cruel winter, in magnificent Central Park in the middle of magnificent New York City, a young squirrel named Patch was awakened very early by the growls of his empty stomach. A squirrel's home is called a drey. Patch's drey was very comfortable. He lived high up an old oak tree, in a hollowed-out stump of a big branch that had long ago been cut off by humans. The entrance was only just big enough for Patch to squeeze in and out, but the drey itself was spacious, for a squirrel. Patch had lined his drey with dry leaves, grasses and bits of newspaper. It was warm and dry, and on that cold morning he would have liked nothing better than to stay home all day and sleep. But he was so hungry. Hunger filled him like water fills a glass. The cherry and maple trees had not yet started to bud; flowers had not yet begun to grow; the juicy grubs and bugs of spring had not yet emerged; and it had been two days since Patch had found a nut. Imagine how hungry you would feel if you went two whole days without eating, and you may have some idea how Patch felt that morning. Patch poked his head out of the drey into the cold air and shivered as he looked around. Clumps of white, crumbly ice still clung to the ground. Gusts of cold wind shook and rustled the trees' bare branches. The pale and distant sun seemed drained of heat. Patch took a moment to satisfy himself that there were no dangers nearby, no hawk circling above or unleashed dog below. Then he emerged from his drey and began to look for acorns. But what marvels, what miracles, what mysteries are hidden inside those simple words! Who is Patch's friend? A. The hawk B. not enough information C. The grub D. The dog
(A).
B