The child tax credit was a lifeline for me. Now the working-poor can't access it.

I was twenty years old and living in a studio apartment in Syracuse, New York when I had my son - unplanned - my junior year of college.

My small home had a window unit that struggled through the day, a kitchen best described as ceremonial, and a bathroom you could barely turn around in, but it was mine—just barely. Rent was $500 then.

It felt like climbing Everest every month with a baby strapped to your back and a statistics final in your pocket.

I was working more than forty hours a week—delivering newspapers, working in reservations at various hotels for people whose shoes cost more than my annual income—while carrying nineteen credits at Syracuse University. I graduated cum laude, though that triumph felt immense over the challenges I faced along the way.

I had my son on a Friday and was back at work and school the following Monday, midway through the Fall 2009 semester. I didn’t miss a beat — tough I missed that critical time alone with my newborn son. Time that I’ll never get back.