This morning at 10 am, Carter and I were eating toast and watching Little House on the Prairie when I said, “I’ve hardly been on the computer for days. I should go to my office for awhile.”
Carter, who has a (inherited) flare for (melo)drama, sighed loudly. “We had so much fun the last . . . → Read More: Slow River
Can we talk about parenting? I want to talk about parenting. Not unusual parenting; not step-parenting, special needs parenting, non-custodial parenting, or anything else. Just any old ordinary parenting, mostly the parenting of babies.
Also about pressure, perfection, and perceived power. It’s like a perfect storm of P alliteration.
Earlier today Abbott Labs recalled . . . → Read More: Parenting Is a Marathon
On a summer day in 1935, a few weeks before she turned 13, my grandma Margery was in the yard of her family’s southwestern Kansas home, pulling laundry off the line. She dropped the clothes and underwear, sheets and towels, gray with dust and baked dry in the villainous sun, into the basket at her feet, . . . → Read More: Duster
This post will have more than the usual cursing and carrying on and even some of the dirty which, DUH, no one talks about Shemar Moore without some (or a lot) of the dirty. You have been warned. If you don’t want to enjoy the tingle that comes with thoughts of the fine hunk . . . → Read More: I love my husband but I would totally throw him under the bus for a laugh or (even better!) a chance to bite Shemar Moore.
I got an email last night, a note from a friend about my last post.
She reminded me of something, the idea that was central to all my parenting decisions before the crises of recent years distracted me.
That idea was this: my children are not mine. They do not belong to me; I . . . → Read More: Letting Go
I love Jacob. In my toenails, I love him. In my liver and capillaries and plasma, I love him.
In the late-1980s, when my whole family was caught up in the self-help movement, it was easy to stand arm’s-distance away from my parents and acknowledge all that they had done wrong, the sins committed, . . . → Read More: To the Moon
I’ve been sick for five days (I think? It could have been four. Or six.). Fever, coughing, stuffy head, gastrointestinal ickiness, the whole unlovely, unpleasant drill.
My mind doesn’t understand the difference between staying in bed all day because of a virus, and staying in bed all day because of depression. If I stay . . . → Read More: Body Memory
On September 13, 2001, I was home alone. I don’t remember why; there should have been kids in the house. Perhaps I wasn’t alone, and the kids were napping? In any case, I was at my desk, doing daycare paperwork, when the phone rang.
The phone had been ringing a great deal. Everyone, it . . . → Read More: The World Is Burning
Jacob is taking drivers’ education.
Oh, you’re sweet. Yes, I was very young when he was born.
Jacob is doing great with the whole learn-to-move-3,000-pounds-of-metal-down-the-road thing. I, on the other hand, had a hard time.
Let’s look first at what I had to work with.
In my case, the family truckster . . . → Read More: Overcorrection
Midmorning on Friday, July 4, 1997, my then husband, Robert, was standing in the doorway between the kitchen and our den, holding our 19 month old daughter Abbie and screaming at me. “I’m leaving! Do you hear me? I’m out of here! I don’t love you anymore! You make me sick! You’re a fucking . . . → Read More: Independence Day