The Joy of Re-Reading

My dad had the best reading light in the house, a 1970s silver bulbous metal shade attached to a long pole standing directly beside the brown corduroy chair constantly tilted back to a 45 degree angle so he could prop up his feet and read the newspaper after work. My 7 year old self fit... Continue Reading →

Not Nothing

Somehow, I've found myself teaching a writing class to a handful of 9 and 10 year olds. That's weird in and of itself. I typically regard groups of kids the way I might regard, say, a murder of crows. Beautiful, but best to keep one's distance. I'm easily overwhelmed by the chaos, caw-CAWing, and furious... Continue Reading →

5 Things I’ve Learned Today

If you go on & on about how hot Florida is, Georgia's gonna get all jealous and show off. It's okay to change plans. Seven year olds are non-truth tellers. Everyone needs to own their part. Today is always a good day for a do-over.

3 Ways Adults Ruin Everything

Being a kid is INTENSE. As adults, we have this bizarre tendency to reminisce over the simplicity of childhood. After two days of full immersion in elementary school culture (and three more days to go), I remember now--being a kid is hard as hell. And adults don't always make it easier. 

4 Reasons I Took My Kid to March For Our Lives Atlanta

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.

Raising a Kid Who Sees (and Celebrates) Color

Our daughter’s start in the world was less than traditional--conceived with donor sperm and born to lesbian parents. Then, when Jane was 4, her Bobby (Jane’s non-biological parent), transitioned from female to male. Que the crash course in gender, acceptance, and celebrating who we are—even if who we are makes us a little different. 

Pocket Sized

“Ooff,” I muttered, rubbing my head. I batted away the pink fluff that hung over my face and called for Yelpi. Where was she anyway? “Yelp….” I trailed off mid-yell. I had found Yelpi alright. Except something was up. Either Yelpi was really, really big… or I was really, really small. Either way, our experiment... Continue Reading →

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