When the Grinch’s heart grew three sizes did it compress a nerve somewhere between his ears and brain? Did blowing his trumpet down Mount Crumpet deafen him ever so slightly so that the flooflovers and gardookas didn’t hold such power over him? 

Society watches uncomfortably and assigns blame to the silly women toppling over the edge. “It’s too bad,” they say, “They should do something!”

It’s hard to write about how your kids won’t leave you alone when they spend most of their time at school. So what’s a well-rested, hormonally-balanced, bodily-autonomy-loving gal to do?

She loves her brothers with the entirety of her heart. She would rather fight with them over Legos than take epic vacations. She would fling herself to the sidewalk for them.

In a way, it’s exhilarating to witness such a pure expression of emotion. But in another way, our downstairs neighbors have complained about the noise.

If I only have ten minutes, what should I write about?

I refuse to hold onto things for sentimental value. The exception? Any – any – stuffed animal my children have ever loved.

If I squinched up my eyes and tilted my head and really looked at my unshiny life, I could sort of see… glimmering?

“I won’t let you hit! [Smile] Let’s play with trucks instead!” has started to feel like gaslighting to me.

Four times in June I planted rows. Four times savage bunnies chewed them to nubs.

I burst into tears at this suggestion: we’ve been trying to sleep train the un-sleep-trainable. Her cries were biological, not strategic.

I hear a strange noise coming from the bathroom adjacent to my office. It sounds like pipes clanking softly. Or small chains dragging gently, but frenetically.