parenthood, social justice

Other people’s children and global parenthood

The week after Jackson was born I read a story about a newborn who'd been bitten by rats over 75 times while his parents were high on drugs. The baby was almost the exact same age as my son, but with a lower birth weight. Only 5 pounds. It was a story that had been… Continue reading Other people’s children and global parenthood


Flea market finds

In the tiny town of Monteagle, TN, there's a flea market that Taylor and I peruse like shell scavengers on a beach. The vendors sell toys with missing parts and corroded batteries. They sell boxes of Little Debbie cakes shaped like Christmas trees--in July. They sell glossy, sumptuously curvy bell peppers and apples that snap… Continue reading Flea market finds


The grace in need

The month after I had a baby, I couldn't figure out how to go to the drug store. My parents had finally left after staying to help with Jackson for the first week, and then returning a few days later after I started sobbing on the phone during a casual update. Taylor was back at… Continue reading The grace in need


The things we carry

Lately I’ve been complaining that I can’t write. My previously complex sentences fragment or drift off into vague wishes for an iced coffee or fantasies about a new granite countertops. The brilliant idea that came to me in bed last night slips away by morning, fleeting as a dream. Motherhood frazzles. If there’s no room… Continue reading The things we carry


To writing more in 2018! Plus a round-up of my work from 2017.

I’m alive. So mumming took more of my time than I expected (yes, I can hear you experienced parents laughing now), but we’re sleeping through the night now (trying not to jinx anything here) and I have a little more bandwidth to write. So here’s to posting more in 2018. Also, I grew up in… Continue reading To writing more in 2018! Plus a round-up of my work from 2017.


Flyover state of mind

The morning before the eclipse, all I think about is not blinding my 5-month-old baby. I drape his carrier in a blue swaddle and hustle him into my friend’s house like a body builder carrying a teetering log. I’m terrified that the cloth will slip and he’ll take a wayward, devastating glance at the sun.… Continue reading Flyover state of mind