My essay, The Dishes Can Wait and Other Lies has had an inexplicable social media surge over the last few days. Once again, I am seeing a lot of sanctimommious strangers saying, “Just get your kids to help clean!”
The pregnancy had been a mess from the beginning, with every plan dismantled. I went through four sets of providers – each progressively more high risk than the last. It was not astonishing when, 37 weeks later, I sat in a hospital room next to my infant son. The surprise was that he was already five weeks old.
A lot of us are struggling to figure out how to express what we are feeling. It is nothing quite like we have ever experienced before.
If you are anything like me, you have likely read about a kazillion birth stories since the moment you found out you were pregnant for the first time. I have read everything from accidental unassisted homebirths to hospital horror stories. From beautiful water births to straightforward c-sections. I don’t know that I have ready many details about preterm c-sections.
It starts as scattered seeds — kernels anchored by anxiety and waiting for the right conditions to sprout. Some days they are fertilized by memories. Some days by fear. Most often they germinate themselves, arriving with a lunchbox of sunlight and water as they feed one another.
My relationship status with nostalgia apps like Timehop and Facebook’s On This Day is, “it’s complicated.”
has laundry baskets full of all the random shit that collects around the house. Toys, hair bows, single socks.