There was a moment in my mid-20s when I realized that I might not have my own opinions about anything.
It feels like various things at various times: a lump in the throat, a bitter feeling on my tongue, tears springing to my eyes, the sense that if you peered into my chest you’d see a visible crack running down the center of my heart.
I ended up watching “Barbie” the very next night, with my two youngest daughters. And then, although I rarely see any movie in the theater once, I went back a week later and watched “Barbie” a second time, because my husband needed to see it.
I recognized this path: I’d walked it before, and I knew it wound its way in hairpin turns along a steep ridge, so that one misstep could send you right off the mountain.
My 15-year-old daughter just completed lifeguard training and will soon be looking down upon the splashing masses at our town pool from atop the official lifeguard chair.
I often feel embarrassed about the seeming lack of constancy and direction in my life story. Am I simply lazy? Unmotivated? When I expressed these concerns to a friend recently, she said, “I think you’ve just had too many choices.”
I have an uneasy relationship in my head with singer/songwriter/cultural icon Taylor Swift.
Herein lies my real beef with The Giving Tree: It’s not just that the tree’s form of giving was bad for the tree, it was also bad for the boy.
My fourth child turns ten in June, which means that I have been writing this column for over a decade; this is my 299th column.
The thing about special holiday traditions is that they are often stressful and messy.
In the middle of a March snowstorm, a lot of people put a lot of effort into saving the life of one mourning dove.
“Vacuuming can be therapeutic,” the middle-aged woman told my 22-year-old self.
With five children aged three to fifteen, my parenting radar sometimes get twitchy, oversensitive. My trigger finger gets itchy at every blip that shows up — and believe me, there are a lot of blips.
I wanted to write about love for Valentine’s Day. When I thought about love, I thought about my marriage beds.
Our family said goodbye to two remarkable women this past December: My grandmother and my aunt died within two weeks of each other.
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