For a brief spell last year, I stopped reading books. (It was terrible, as you can imagine.) I don’t know, I haven’t figured it out really. It’s just that I was writing a lot and felt spent, so I wanted to fill up on something really, really good but couldn’t get into anything, not really,
In a world where perspectives are many, where options are many-er, where we can order pizza or not, read Tolstoy or not, vote left or not, it is impossible not to bristle. It is impossible not to be wrong. — Last week, I was wrong. And it was largely uncomfortable. It is uncomfortable to declare
Roughly nine years ago, I wrote gift guides for a living. I’d title them with sly, witty link bait like, ’10 Genius Gifts For Your Co-Ed Nephew Who Swears His Alarm Clock Is Broken But We’ve Seen The Timestamp On His Twitter Feed.’ I don’t do gift guides anymore. — Once, years ago, I scoured
Well, it’s just that the days are really, really long in the short kind of way. The dark by 5:30 way, the pent up energy way, the bouncing from walls way (her) and the silence, please way (you). The beauty of motherhood is that you learn to power through it. You do it because you
Toddler books. Some of them are nuts, Amen? Just yesterday, I plucked a ripe one from the yellowed oak library shelf and I flipped through the first few pages, then a few more, then finally the end and I still have no earthly intimation of the plot. There was a dinosaur and a cherry pie,
I don’t know; it’s just that I should probably tape it all to my fridge: When you feel hungry, but nothing sounds good, you’re actually just thirsty. Drink some water, lady. Good gracious. Everyone yells. There is grace for today. Do not order the jeans online. They will not fit, and jeans are not on
A few years ago, Ken and I hosted our family Christmas. We had 16 mouths to feed and a handful of picky kids, so the menu chose us: a pasta bar. To the voices of Bing Crosby and David Bowie, we stir butter noodles and simmer heirloom tomatoes and begin to prep the star of