Mornings Are Hard
Jun07

Mornings Are Hard

Mornings Are Hard
Mornings are hard for grownups. Mornings are hard for kids. Mornings are the worst, really. And I need the smallest person in the house to brush her teeth and get herself dressed and omg why do I have to say these things over and over and over every morning. SOS.

“How many times do I have to tell you…”

“Ooooh Apa you hate it when people say that to youuuuu.”

Mornings with a kid were making me into the person I don’t want to be. So I started leaving her notes.

Everyone loves notes.


The notes were great. The notes worked. But then I had to write notes every morning. Because if I didn’t, the kid would be reading for an hour and not dressed and would never ever eat a single morning thing.

The notes got an upgrade to something more permanent. Because mornings are always the worst, but we don’t have to ALSO be fighting about the regular stuff in between.

I might need to make myself a fancy list. Maybe then I’d eat something more than a gallon of coffee. Maybe.

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There’s No Such Thing As “What a boy looks like,” Lessons From My 8-year-old On Gender Identity
Jun05

There’s No Such Thing As “What a boy looks like,” Lessons From My 8-year-old On Gender Identity

There's No Such Thing As

“Can you always tell when someone is queer?” She hesitated, and nearly not finishing the question. We sat at a window seat for dinner overlooking the busy street. Provincetown on Memorial Day is what queer looks like, I wanted to reply, as we were surrounded by drag queens and rainbows and poodles in tutus. It was her first time there, and she was starting to understand. And along with that understanding, she was beginning to piece together the stereotypes that go with all of it, and the problematic erasure that comes along for the ride.

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I’m not going to tell my kid this time 
May23

I’m not going to tell my kid this time 

I’m not going to tell my kid about the bombing, this time. And yes it’s the privilege of being unaffected enough to not have to, I know. After the Boston Marathon bombings here, I know the other side of that, too. 

I know all the reasons to tell her. I’ve written some of them here before, but this time feels different. Too close to her childhood, maybe. Too close to her understanding that those were kids just like her. Too close to why is everything so terrifying. 

I’m scared a lot of the time. She will be too, soon enough, I imagine. But she doesn’t need to be yet. 

I don’t want to tell her. And if she finds out and asks more? This time, I’m keeping it simple. Vague even. Maybe for her. Maybe for me. This time is too many times. This time is too much. This time shouldn’t be again

I’ve turned off the radio. I bought a subway pass for the week and left the car at home. I don’t want to hear about it. Let’s go to the playground. Let’s take the way too old dog for a way too long walk. Because being a part of something bigger sometimes starts in the neighborhood. 

This time, I don’t need to know every detail. I’m not going to solve the world’s problems by scrolling through Twitter. I don’t need to process or wonder or hear any of it to know that this, again, is devastating. I don’t need to tell my kid and I don’t need anyone to tell me. Not this time. I can’t do it this time. This time is just too many times. There’s nothing left to say. 

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On Starting Slow and (Not) Obsessing
Mar06

On Starting Slow and (Not) Obsessing

This post is sponsored by WeeSchool, the all in one parenting app from birth to age 3. All opinions and stories are mine, though. Because Roozle. Download the WeeSchool App here by June 1, and you can register for free, lifetime access to all premium WeeSchool content and features.

“How old is she?”
“Almost one!”
“Oh! Is she walking yet?”

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My Body, My Rules
Dec16

My Body, My Rules

She doesn’t stop for a picture as much as she used to. She rolls her eyes more when I start a conversation on purpose to teach her some kind of lesson. She argues. She responds to all things with, “My body, my rules.” This is 7 and a half. This is second grade. This is new, as all childhood phases are. Because this is growing up. And sometimes, this is a challenge. Mostly for me. My parenting tricks don’t work anymore. Especially the ones for bedtime. Sometimes nothing works except independence. Except letting her sort it out. Except showing up to check in, setting super clear limits and expectations, and always following through with all of it. Parenting is still a lot of work. Parenting is still this imperfect game of having a strategy and also figuring it out as we go.

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Sometimes A Little Is A Lot (especially when it’s a BABY GOAT OMG)
Dec08

Sometimes A Little Is A Lot (especially when it’s a BABY GOAT OMG)

I don’t have a lot to give her, but I still teach her to give. I teach her that when you don’t have money, you can give time. I teach her to donate the things she’s grown out of. She thinks about the things she doesn’t need and how others might need and want them. She considers the things she likes and puts that stuff in the bags too, because if she likes it, someone else will like it too. She fills the bag on her own and we go together to drop it off.

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