Parenting ain’t always pretty

Sometimes parenting is a sonnet. Filled with moonlit, rocking chair, baby skin-to-skin moments. But sometimes, it is just not. Sometimes there are no words to beautify the exhausting moments of parenting. There is only a new kind of carpet cleaner cracked open for the...
Open arms, ready or not

Open arms, ready or not

Some days life comes at you in a fast, blurry, haze. You have to take a step back before it knocks you down. You adjust your focus and still can’t quite see things clearly. All you know for sure is that motherhood is a series of meals half eaten but never while...
Open arms, ready or not

Sometimes sleep deprivation is a good thing

This boy. We should have named this boy Houdini. All last week he escaped his crib in the pitch black dark of his bedroom, over the side rail and via the changing table, dropping fearless down to the floor. At 2am he greets me nose-to-nose, eyeball-to-eyeball over the...

An open letter to my working mother’s guilt

You, sir, are a liar and a thief. You lie about the quality of my mothering and you steal the joy of time spent with my children by making me worry about the time we spend apart. You are self important and self involved. You trick me into thinking that I can control...

A wild generosity

At six every single morning my two-year-old wakes up, calls for me and expects a transfer to my bed stopping only to pick up a bottle of milk warmed to his exacting standards along the way. Then we pretzel. And I dread the moment my alarm will go off. It’s...