On Motherhood:

They Are Not Half Sisters, published on Brain, Child Magazine

I believe with all my heart that my children will never regard each other as half of anything. Their relationship contains everything that full-blooded siblings experience. It is full of loyalty. Full of conflict. Full of that deep understanding and witnessing that only siblings can share. Full of love.

How To Embrace Life as a Main Character Mommy, published on Motherwell Magazine

“Mommy, you have main character energy,” my fifteen-year-old told me. It wasn’t a compliment. 

“What does that mean?” I asked her. She clarified with, “It means you’re a total main character. I mean, even your Myers Briggs says so. ENFJ is the protagonist.” She threw her hands up, emphasizing my status as a cosmic lost cause, me and my main character energy. 

I mean, let’s be honest. Mothers are not supposed to be main characters. We were built for a supporting role. Mom is not the lead actress; if she’s lucky she’ll get recognized for her role supporting the main characters, but most of the time, those people hand her actual trash.  

It’s Possible That Sending Your Child To Middle School Is Worse Than Going Yourself, publishing in The Washington Post’s On Parenting.

At her age, I too was the one always pumping the brakes while my peers tested limits. I was the one clinging safely to the side of the metaphorical pool while others explored. How can you not be enmeshed with yourself, reincarnated?

I thought living vicariously through your children meant watching your kid win the high school award you never did, or emailing them for daily updates while they studied abroad in college. It wasn’t supposed to mean sprouting sympathy acne on your chin in the same place where their first-week-of-school-breakout occurred. But it seemed I was mistaken: this brand of vicarious travel meant revisiting the still-fresh hell of the worst years of your life. The weekend before the first day of my daughter’s seventh-grade year, I dreamed I was roaming crowded hallways, searching for my locker and classrooms amid the chaos.

Debate: Should Kids Have Homework in Elementary School? published in Brain, Child Magazine’s September 2015 issue:

Parents in our culture receive mixed messages about how we are to approach childhood; we exchange sentimental quips about how fast it goes and how we should savor every minute, and in the next breath we prematurely push our children to be responsible, work-driven mini-adults. When do they get to just be kids? With the metamorphosis of extracurricular activities into high-pressured endeavors, our children already enjoy far less unstructured time than their parents did. If they are supposed to be involved in competitive sports, foreign languages, musical instruments, and religious or philanthropic organizations, where is the time for family meals, relaxing with a good book, and roaming freely with their neighborhood friends?

Mean Mommy published on Mamalode

“Shut up,” I yelled at the small dog who was yapping frantically at the crazy woman entering his territory. Yes, I am that big of a jerk. I shout at dachshunds. Reentering the car to the soundtrack of my daughter’s crying, I realized I had to get it together. “Izzy,” I began, “you need to stop freaking out.” I had an out of body experience as I watched the words float out of my mouth. The glaring hypocrisy smacked me in the face, but it was too late to take my duplicitous words back.

On Feminism:

Maiden, Mother, Bitch, published in Mutha Magazine

But really, I should have pitied the pregnant woman’s innocence, as I knew what she did not: that after this momentary flash in the pan, nothing would ever truly be all about her ever again. Her poised, graceful self would soon become unrecognizable, yielding to cracked nipples, adult diapers, and a chart taped to the nursery wall, fastidiously monitoring the bowel movements of another human being. 

Where was my compassionate “Oh, darling, I’ve been where you are,” or even a condescending “Just you wait;” “This is the easy part,” or all the other tropes I railed against when I was procreating? I’d like to think I might have responded with a fond chuckle or discreet eye roll, but it was her earnestness about the whole thing that really did me in, pushing my buttons with disarming ferocity.

It’s my sneering inner bully who goes in for the kill:It’s because you’re jealous, asshole.

The Anti-Feminist Agenda of Family Wellness Night, published in Mutha Magazine

Yet as the weeks passed, I began to notice a slightly troubling pattern. My family members easily complimented each other’s talents. But when the time came for the family to “fill Mommy’s bucket,” the contributions all took a similar turn: What Mommy did for each of them. 

I attempted to depersonalize it and take a larger, more intellectual view of things. Wasn’t it fascinating that children acknowledged the positive qualities of their caregivers through such a specific lens?

Children are naturally egocentric and perceive other people as relative to themselves, I assured myself. But the girls had no problem using adjectives to describe Daddy’s attributes: Brave, funny, strong, good at fixing things. 

It seemed that only I was adored solely for the ways in which I fulfilled other family member’s needs—my gifts were all those of service. Apparently, my family viewed me as the one cliché I had worked desperately to avoid: the martyr. Which meant only one thing: my efforts to raise young feminists was a miserable fucking failure.

I Stopped Wearing Makeup for My Daughters, published on Cosmopolitan.com

As I watch my little girl scrutinize her face, I’d like to tell her that it doesn’t matter if you look perfect, that nobody else is judging you as harshly as you judge yourself, that it’s a waste of time to stand in front of the mirror criticizing your appearance. But I would be a hypocrite.

Humor pieces:

She’s Not an Asshole; She’s Just a Three-Year-Old published on Scary Mommy

When in my threenager’s company, I rarely go more than several minutes without encountering her dark side. She is constantly sobbing over some injustice, be it my refusal to allow her to ingest the entire Costco box of Annie’s Organic Fruit Snacks or the fact that her Dora nightlight isn’t properly aligned with her bed railing. It’s as though she lives in a constant state of PMS and has just found out that chocolate is now illegal and her favorite soap opera has been canceled. I contemplate crushing up some mood stabilizers and sneaking it into her yogurt tube.

But then I remember: she’s not chemically unbalanced. She’s just a 3-year-old.

Come to think of it, she is kind of an asshole. But she won’t be forever.

I Apologize for My Memoir, published in The Belladonna Comedy

Fortunately for women memoirists everywhere, I have stumbled upon the useful tool of the prologue disclaimer; if you have writing aspirations of your own, please feel free to borrow this handy device. After all, it presents a tantalizing opportunity to present the world with your story while paradoxically serving the larger purpose of diminishing your work — who could resist? This strategy is what led me to begin my memoir with this compelling line: “The most embarrassing idea I ever had was to write this book.” It was such a relief to just get that out of the way immediately. Don’t worry, I know writing memoir is really self-involved, especially for hetero-cis-white middle-class women who lacked any Capital T trauma in their lives. You don’t have to read it! Believe me, I get it. Like, I’m embarrassed just to have had the idea.