Most of my childhood is buried in a landfill somewhere near Houston. This is not a metaphor, but rather the sad outcome of foreclosure proceedings on my family's home when I was 12. When we left the white brick house, we moved into a rickety green wooden rental that slashed our living space in half. We took what we could carry in our vehicle -- mostly the necessities -- and left the rest behind. (When your home is being foreclosed, you generally can't afford a storage building.) But the house, and thereby everything in it, belonged to the bank, so they quietly and efficiently hauled off our belongings to a BFI landfill. Family and wedding photo albums, my mom's wedding dress, most of my and my brother's toys, our bronzed baby shoes that hung on the wall as proof of how far we'd come, a wall full of books, the majority of our family mementos and brick-a-brac. The junk that makes a house a home. I'm telling you this because of an angel named Gloria. Growing up, ...

Ah, Christmas - that special time of year when we jingle our bells, deck our halls, and throw all of our musical sensibilities out the window. Christmas albums mediocre and awful abound, featuring tired renditions of old favorites and new music that aims to be the next Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas Is You" but lands somewhere closer to Justin Beiber's rap-tastic "Drummer Boy." Some songs just rub people the wrong way. I've heard a lot of complaints about "I Want A Hippopotamus for Christmas," for example. Other than the distinct possibility of being killed by a hippo, the song is kinda cute. I'd be interested in seeing how a child gives a hippo a massage in the garage, for example. Other people take issue with the violent nature of "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer." I don't have any problems with this one either; in fact, I agree with the statement that Santa Claus really shouldn't have a driver...

Sunday would mark my mother's 64th birthday, if she had lived past 56. Hers was a slow and miserable decline. While I would never wish to prolong her suffering, I do wish her sicknesses could have loosened their grasp long enough for her to meet my child(ren). But more than that, I wish I could have gotten to know her as an adult. There are bits and pieces I recall of her between the mental and physical illness, but they are viewed through the cloudy eyes of a child. It would be completely differently to know her as an adult, and that's one of the many things her death took from me. circa 1981 It is difficult to be a mother without a mother. There are long stretches of blankness in my childhood, things I can't remember because I was too young or too inexperienced to know what to hold on to. That's one of the things I miss most about talking to her -- there are so many questions I wish I could ask about who I was as a child, and how I am like (or unlike) her as a ...

This antidepressant is stealing all my funny. I've been on medication since I was 12. Without it, I sit in corners of dark rooms and listen to Counting Crows CDs on repeat. That's right, I go straight 1994. And I'm hard core, baby, writing angsty poetry between debilitating anxiety attacks and episodes of Friends. I'm funny, but only in a dark, fatalistic sort of way. Like Winona Ryder in Beetlejuice, except without the shoplifting a few years later. With the help of modern pharmacology, I am lollipops and rainbows. Well, that might be a slight exaggeration. At the very least, I am Cuba Libres, witty one-liners, and imaginative, entertaining banter. I like my meds like I like my men: strong and lab-tested for adverse reactions. A few weeks ago, I flipped the script and started on baby-friendly antidepressants in case our plans for #2 materialize. It turns out I don't do as well on the less-potent dope. Since then I've downgraded from rum and sarcasm ...

Recently, my husband made a confession so shocking that I'm still licking my wounds and figuring out how to handle this newfound bone of contention in our relationship. There we were, having an otherwise acceptable conversation, when he told me he would "be okay" with not getting any more dogs after our two go to that big farm in the sky. It's like I don't even know him anymore. I love dogs. Really, really love dogs. Back when we met, I had my first Boston terrier. He was willful and funny looking and I loved him more than a fat kid loves cake. I made it clear to anyone I dated that the dog and I were a package deal. This guy, however, had never owned a pup and fancied himself the alpha male in the house. When we moved in together, my husband-to-be expressed some concern about how much dog hair would be on the furniture, how much dog poop would be in the yard, and where the dog would sleep at night. I kindly informed him that my dog had been in my bed longer t...

The Kiddo is in the Let's Bring Mom Things stage. It started with the white flowers that grow on the clover in the neighbor's yard. When we would go outside in the afternoons to play, my son would become endlessly interested in something simple, like a throwing a hickory nut fallen from a tree or rolling half-empty water bottles down the driveway to see how far they'd go. I'd be left with little to do besides throw an occasional "good job, sweetheart" his way (Mom of the Year candidate, right here), so I started pulling weeds in the yard. This served the dual purpose of keeping me occupied and keeping the yard nice, since we gave up the yard service when I stayed home with the kid. On those long afternoons he would watch me pulling up weeds and followed suit, indiscriminately pulling up grass and weeds alike. Then one day he plucked a single white clover flower, toddled over to me, and offered it up. I was so overcome with pride and love that I made a big deal...

My uterus has a polyp. It's not getting any bigger, but it's not going away either. It's just hanging out there, doing polyp stuff. Maybe reading a book and eating an apple. Or maybe jamming to the new U2 album. (As an aside, I really hope my uterus doesn't listen to U2. I don't have anything against the band per se, but I would prefer my internal organs' musical tastes lean more toward singer/songwriter than pop idol-turned-philanthropist-turned-corporate sell out.) If your uterus needs a hug like mine does, this pillow is available on Etsy. For real. The good news is the polyp probably isn't harmful to my health in any way. It isn't cancerous or anything scary like that. The bad news is it may temporarily derail our plans to have Baby #2 . We had a tremendous struggle getting pregnant the first time -- one diagnosis of testicular cancer followed by an orchiectomy (google it, I dare you), one diagnosis of low egg count (which meant my ovaries ...