Posts Under: DIARY


Not Here For This Shit Anymore

I started being treated like an idiot in the seventh grade. I'd transferred out of a school where I was so nerdy and ostracized that a pair of "popular" twin boys took to leaving death threats on my parents' answering machine, and entered a school located all the way across town, where nobody had any idea who I was. I had a blank slate. Over the summer before I entered my new school, my bangs grew out, I shot up a couple of inches, the beginnings of breasts appeared, and I started to emerge from that tragic awkwardness that plagues middle-schoolers of the large-toothed sort.

Boys noticed. I noticed them noticing. I loved it.

I also spent a lot of time observing my new environment, and specifically the girls who seemed like they had a handle on it all; like they were important. I noticed that it wasn't cool to be smart, or to do well on tests, and so I started lying. I moaned over my grades when I was actually getting solid As; I asked for homework help that I didn't need; I giggled and pretended not to know what James was getting at when he and his friends came over to me in the cafeteria and he handed me a banana and told me they wanted to see me eat it.

I ate it.



I posted a video to Instagram Stories yesterday, and I'm really annoyed at myself about it. In the video, taken outside my son's piano teacher's house, I said that I had just realized that I'd forgotten to bring his piano music to the lesson for the second time in a row, and said it feels sometimes like my life is just one Mom Fail after the next. I forget the music. I'm late to pickup. I don't include vegetables in lunch (or dinner, sometimes). I love, love, love it when they're watching TV, because when they're watching TV I can breathe for a second.

The other day I ran into my friend as I was walking away from kindergarten drop-off - I'd been late, and had had to walk my son through the office (tardy slip! #momfail) - but she was later; so late that she wasn't even bothering to rush. We laughed when we saw each other - no words needed, because we've both seen each other be "that mom," the one frantically waving her arms and rushing past the horde of on-time parents walking in the other direction, yelling WAITWAITWAITWAITWAIT! while the door to the classroom shuts in our face.

Back to that video: My "I'm such a failure as a parent" video. I know that it's a teeny, tiny thing, forgetting your child's sheet music (even when you do it often). But as I dropped him off - flustered, my daughter crying from the car because she'd dropped her paper crown and couldn't reach it, hurriedly trying to explain during the second between the door opening and it closing again that it's totally my fault, I'm really sorry, I promise it won't happen again - I felt ridiculous, like a cartoon of a disheveled parent. Surely the "real" moms out there remember their child's music for piano class. Surely they don’t have to scream at their children to walk faster! in order to get them to class before the bell; surely they restrict screen time to an hour per day (weekends only!).


About Last Night

The best words I can use to describe last night's Halloween extravaganza: Laser. Focus. These two were ON TASK.

(First, can we please note that heart sunglasses make quite the perfect addition to a Belle costume?)

Now allow me to present to you the series of "family photos" my neighbor took of us. I'm going to tell you who I think won each shot; let's see if you concur.


10 Lessons I’ve Learned Since Becoming A Mom (Twice)

2 weeks postpartum. (Note: This photo is in no way representative of actual life with a baby.)

The first time I wrote about being a parent was the day after my first child - my son - was born. I didn't "write" about it, actually: I just posted a series of pictures, because I had no idea what to say about parenthood, having experienced it for all of 12 hours, and was overwhelmed by the idea of saying anything at all, lest what I said turn out to be "wrong" or "not motherly enough" or some such ridiculousness. As I wrote in this post, "To write about my feelings for my baby is to open up conversation about those feelings, and they are so precious and so mine that it would be heartbreaking for me were they to be trivialized or misunderstood."

I mean, I used to hide pacifiers before taking pictures because I was scared that some unknown Internet Person would yell at me that giving my baby a pacifier was a terrible, horrible thing to do. ...Because what did I know? Maybe it was!


Bad Clown

image via

I've spent the past week trying to write a story about a shitty performer I saw at a fair, and somehow the post keeps turning into an analysis of systemic misogyny and Harvey Weinstein, and ultimately leads me to a story from my past I've always been afraid to tell. I'm having trouble getting to the root of why all of these things feel so tied up in a ugly little knot.

So - because I might as well start somewhere - let me start with the clown.