What's a kid to do when her parents move her from one neighborhood to another--which means starting a new school?!? Watch as our intrepid second grade hero navigates these treacherous waters.
This is Sam I Am. I love him. But we had a falling out earlier this week. I'm trying to forgive. Really. But he's an elf. He has ONE JOB. I just need him to do that job. Is that too much to ask?
This beautiful, little human is trying to kill me. I mean, not with anything as overt as knives and such. But with eye rolls and sighs, ingratitude and accusations. And if you tell me it will only get worse as she gets older, I will jump through this screen and kick your ass.
This is my life, RIGHT NOW. Because, good or bad... it's fleeting. I'll just stay where my feet are & take it as it comes.
Outside our small, yellow house in Atlanta, a huge Pride flag waves in the breeze. I love that flag. It tells a part of our family's story that is no longer easily visible. The near unraveling of our marriage in 2016 broke something in me. I thought I'd try to piece it together, to come... Continue Reading →
So I told her to make her own damn sandwich. (Note: I did not actually say damn out loud. But I said it real, real loud in my head. I think she could probably hear it) She huffed and puffed while she made her sandwich. I took my coffee and my English muffin to the other side of the kitchen, where her huffing was muted by the snorting of the dog.
I don’t think about her often, this baby that would’ve been my second child. But sometimes the missing of her will sneak up, unexpectedly. Sometimes.
Sometimes grief feels more like empty space. A vague longing for what used to be. It’s a nagging sort of sadness, one that I keep trying to reason away. But reason and grief have never been particularly compatible. So it goes. My grandmother used to get up before the morning light got strong and bright... Continue Reading →
When I found out I was (finally) pregnant, I fundamentally misunderstood what was about to happen. I mean, I wanted a KID. What I got was, well, a baby. Turns out, babies aren’t really my thing.
At 7 years old, my daughter, has already attended seven civil rights marches (if you count the five Pride parades she’s attended—and I do. Oh, I do.). I don’t come from a long line of activists. In fact, my parents always seem (not so secretly) appalled that I let Jane march through the streets holding signs, chanting, and generally being a rabble-rouser. But here’s the thing: Jane was born into activism.