But this isn’t a story about things lost. Youth. Running. Identity. Or, at least, it’s not only a story about that. It’s about the inevitable morphing one does in big and small ways. It’s about what that morphing takes, no matter how old we get

And germs.

Maybe—and this unfortunately means accepting that past me was a snobby bitch—maybe being a Dance Mom has changed me. For good.

I made a discovery on one of those relentless January days: two of my houseplants had flowered.

If I haven’t bloomed yet, what have I been doing this whole time? 

I spent an hour that afternoon carefully mending our 8-year-old neighbor’s lovies, four identical rabbits that were loved so hard their heads fell off.

I’m not over here trying to drink a lemontini and read context-free Emily Dickinson lines to pretend at feeling fulfilled. I want advice from fellow moms who came out of the holidays feeling tired, tired, tired with more dark snowy months ahead.

Naughty? Nice? The Christmas Witch is on it!

An open letter to some of our most…ardent…readers.

I can miss my babies so much – truly, genuinely – and simultaneously rage at the fact of having one. I can feel sorrow for the end of our baby era – truly, genuinely – and never want to do it again.

That feeling when: You have the chance to really see your children with the gorgeous perspective of distance.

Parenthood in a nutshell, in the span of two hours on a random Saturday.

It has come to my attention that some of us feel a little cranky about the laundry. This is my effort to balance the scales.

A quick run-through of some things that have been on my mind lately, to the women who always get it.

Others try to help: my husband, my mother. I don’t stop them. I’m not an insane person. But they will never know you like I do.