Category

Essays

Why I don’t write about my children

Right now, the most commonly-asked question I get from people–besides “What do you write?”–is whether or not I write about my children. This could be due to the fact that I spend a lot of time around other mothers. My children are very young (almost 5 and 18 months), so our days are spent doing preschool runs and making play dates. But still, I find it interesting that this question comes up so often. There’s even been a bit of a nasty twist to the tone when a person or two have asked this question, raising their eyebrows and laughing as if I can get some sort of revenge on my kids by writing about them. I don’t write about my children. Other than very minor anecdotes in an otherwise larger story, I’ve chosen to exclude them from my writing. And this is not an accident. Years ago, when I was in college as an older student (I went back to finish my bachelor’s degree when I was 30), I had a wonderful professor who taught creative non-fiction and also published essays. Shannon Lakanen gave a reading one night at my college while I was taking one of her classes. Her essay…

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Damn the baby-holders, full speed ahead

I was talking with a friend recently about baby-holders: the people who show up after you give birth and want to do nothing but hold your baby. Oh, did we have a good and bitter laugh about them! She had gotten into an online discussion, voicing her opinion that it was perfectly acceptable for new parents to put a sign on their front door that said, essentially, “Our baby is sleeping and we are resting. Feel free to leave food and we’ll call when we’re ready to see you.” Apparently some people were having a fit about this, because they considered this sign and this behavior “rude.” And it brought back a LOT of memories for me. When I had my first son, we had so. Many. Visitors. It was a nonstop stream of people for a solid four or five months. My oldest was not an easy baby. He screamed a lot. Like all night long, unless he was walked in a loop through our kitchen, living room and sun room; walking in that loop was the only thing that soothed him. I tried to nurse him and couldn’t because it was horribly painful–I didn’t find out until he was…

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Wooden spoon survivor

I’ve seen this image floating around on Facebook lately. Whenever anyone shares this, it’s in the vein of, “Haha, isn’t this hilarious?” and “Yep, I survived, and look at how GREAT I am because of it!” As if they belong to some private and wonderful club. I don’t find it funny at all. I find it repugnant. Many of my published essays center around the topic of my childhood, specifically my mother’s rage and how it manifested in abuse. My mother and I have shared a long and rocky road in our relationship, but I’m proud to say we’ve come to a good place, and I’ve forgiven her for my childhood (thanks in no small part to my own entree into motherhood. It’s a real humbling experience, folks). I understand now why she did what she did; she couldn’t help it, she didn’t know better, and she was a mere child when she got pregnant with me at seventeen. (Seventeen!) She knows all about my writing and was bighearted enough to tell me she understood that it was my story to tell. How lucky am I, that she has given me this gift? Still, it should not be a surprise…

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