When life gets rough, I like to take it out on my body. During my childhood, I took to dying my hair, mostly red because I desperately wanted to have Ariel’s hair before I even know that hair dye was an actual thing. Before I divorced my ex-husband, I pierced my nose. I pierced my
All organized events where I’m forced to interact with other parents just because our kids have been piled together makes me an exceptionally judgmental asshole. Though, I must confess that I am the one that actively campaigns for my children to pick a team sport, activity, something after the long, painful cabin fever induced winter. You
Birthday parties turn me into an entirely different person, ya’ll. I go from being generally laid back about everything to this crazed Pinteresting fool who has mistaken herself for a DIYer who loves to party plan. I mean, I do love to plan things — I like lists, and lists, and more lists. I like
I see all those tributes people make to the babies they lose and I think, “I wish I could be like that. I want to be like that.” There was a time, though it feels hazy now, when I did do that. I used to light candles. I helped organize a walk regarding pregnancy loss.
With his brand new Star Wars hat, my son paced around our front porch. I sat perched allowing my skin to drink in the early morning sun. His lips were moving every so slightly as he attempted to count out the dandelions along the edge of our neighbour’s lawn. Mid count, he stopped and turned