Us. While we can be. This, right here, this moment, I assume that this is all there is. This is as good as it gets. I am in my footie jammies, the ones with the gnomes riding on flamingos. They smell odd, I’m not sure what of. Though I do know that I just poured and entire – and very hot – cup of coffee in the bed with me. Narrowly missing my computer which is good, but meaning that I have to wash all the bedding today, which is approximately my least favorite thing to do. So

The looks I got when I let her, at age 8, put rainbow stripes in her hair…. But, why not? The summer between my junior and senior year in high school, I was 16 years-old, 2,000 miles from my home in Seattle, and had just discovered both cocaine and the joys of sex. Which, even at that young age, I knew went very well together. And which will sound odd when I swear to you, up and down and all kind of sideways, that I was a good kid. I was smart and kind and talented and all th

Me and the daughter who might, when she’s older, reflect back on the fact that I didn’t totally suck at parenting. One of the best things about being old, and mostly surviving my child-rearing years unscathed, is that I get to assure my friends with little kids that it will all be okay. I even get to mean it. And they listen to me, because I am clearly the awesomest mother ever, as evidenced by my 16 year-old who actually likes me, is a straight A student taking AP classes in

Celia and I messing around in the gym. Photo by Tim Aguero. I am terrified of flying. I am the crazy lady who delayed a flight from New York to Spain while I had a panic attack that I really believed to be a heart attack. My infant daughter was in my arms, and as horrified as I was that I was inconveniencing everyone else, it was having her in my arms that made me realize how big a problem this was. Not the delay (which we probably made up in flight,) but my fear. Specificall

I am watching her, but I see her, at age 4, in ballet class, with her underwear bulky under a pink leotard as her feet disobediently jitter about like a drop of water on a hot skillet. This is my baby. It’s been 16 years, mind you, but I’m still sometimes confused about the fact that I’m a parent. I don’t recall, really, if we planned it or it was impulse. I do know that I never wanted to be a parent, because I can’t imagine anything harder, more important, more terrifying th

Okay, ya ya ya, Casey Anthony got off. Yes, all of my mommy instincts think she mostly likely killed her daughter. I also think it was more likely some form of criminal neglect and immaturity rather than intentional murder – though it’s not like that makes it any better. However, I’m much more interested in everybody else’s response to this than in the case itself. Casey and her dead baby are nothing more than a symptom, and all the crap that people are saying now is most of

When she was a toddler, I tried not to gasp in “horror” every time she fell over, so as not to teach her to panic and freak out every time she stumbled. Now, I try not to laugh when these outbursts happen, so as not to invalidate her very real feelings. And make her think I’m an even bigger bitch than she already does, by forcing her to dress appropriately. I also try not to “fight” back, because it really isn’t worth it, and sure as hell don’t want to validate this. So I sta