As a freelance writer, I focus on gender, parenting, politics, travel and design. When not wrangling my two young daughters, I'm working on a memoir about writing and motherhood.
In all of the months leading up to election, I didn't have a single conversation with anyone who said they planned to vote for Donald Trump. Not in person. Not over the phone. Not with any of my 1,059 Facebook friends. Not with my family, my neighbors or my circle of loved ones and acquaintances that stretches across the country and around the world.
Shame on me.
When I was 20 years old, I got pregnant. For the first eleven weeks, I pretended it wasn’t happening. I made excuses for my missed periods. I rushed past pregnancy tests at the drugstore. I refused to acknowledge the changes in my body. If I did nothing, maybe it would all just go away. The one thing I couldn’t escape was a growing sense of dread. For two nights in a row, I was stalked in my dreams by a man with a cage for a mouth.
Outside the window of our Coast Starlight compartment, little towns along the track flicker in and out of view. They look forsaken and forlorn, but here in our private Superliner Roomette, we're feeling free.
Like my mom, I have two willful, spirited daughters. Unlike Mom, I’m raising them alongside a hands-on spouse.
Recently, The Oregonian/OregonLive ran a story called "Peek inside Google's secretive new Portland office." The accompanying slideshow featured interiors straight out of Dwell magazine: beautiful beverage dispensers filled with mint and lemon water, a Forest Park room with moody blue lighting and birch tree wallpaper, an oh-so-2016 living plant wall.
Even though we haven’t met, I think I can safely guess a few things about you. You’re doing the best you can. You love your boy within an inch of his life. You’d do anything to help and support him, nurture and encourage him.
3 ways to bring your former kid-free life into you...
Split personality / A celebrity in Britain, the Hou...
Eons ago, I ran into a work colleague and his new girlfriend in the elevator. She didn’t smile when he introduced us, but gave me a super slow once-over. I was more amused by the scrutiny than annoyed, but then the new girlfriend caught me off-guard. “How old are you?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. What a weird thing to want to know, I thought, but I answered anyway. “Oh,” she smirked. “You look great for 27.”
Five months ago I walked into my mother's house on a rainy afternoon. She was sitting on the couch, shoulders slumped forward, holding an oversized piece of mail. She look at me, dejected, and asked, "Why do I put myself through this?"