The summer after I gave birth to the baby, I treated myself to a new swimsuit. It was one of those forgiving tankini styles in black, with strategically placed blue ruffles. Dillard's was having a special sale, so I got some free gifts with my purchase -- a set of cheap flip-flops two sizes too big and a pair of ugly plastic sunglasses. I knew I would never use either but felt guilty throwing away items that were perfectly good, so I left the items in a bag on my bedroom floor until I decided what to with them. That was in 2013. One entire presidential term came and went while that bag sat on my floor. (Thanks, Obama.) I am not a good housekeeper. Clutter tends to follow in my wake , from winter shoes I may need to wear tomorrow to bills I need to sort through to toys I should give away. And when I begin to feel overwhelmed by raising two tiny, needful humans and living through a time of deep political unrest that may affect my family's sole income stream, my housekeeping...

She was the strongest person I'll ever know. I don't have appropriate words to describe my mother. It wasn't that she was determined, because that implies an overall plan of action. She just kept going. I wouldn't call it perseverance, because that invokes the idea that eventually she prevailed. She didn't; she just kept going. She was not quite persistent or tenacious, and certainly not resolute or steadfast. She woke up every day and did what had to be done all day long, no matter how difficult or unfair or unpleasant. She was not energetic or particularly positive or even hopeful. She just kept going. When the car broke down on the side of the road, she walked with the groceries in her arms. When the electricity was shut off for a week, she heated my bath water on a Coleman stove in the kitchen and carried it to the tub. When my chronically unemployed father couldn't put food on the table, she visited the local food pantry in the next town as often as t...

September and October were given mostly to anxiety . By November depression had set in, but I didn't recognize it for what it was. Instead I blamed the stress of my little girl's first birthday party, or the chaos of those relentless months with so many celebrations to attend and gifts to buy, or the inevitable disappointment that the holidays hold as I try to recapture some feeling of happiness I never quite got my fingers around as a child. I kept thinking if I could just get over the next hurdle, I'd start feeling better. Any day now. Any. Day. By January I was too tired to fight with it anymore. It followed me from room to room in my house. I went to sleep with it and woke up with it. Finally I called my psychiatrist and asked her for a change in my medication. I'm no stranger to recurrent, severe depression. Note I don't use those words lightly -- I actually read them once on my medical chart. "Major depressive disorder, recurrent, severe +...

The below entry was originally posted on MySpace (remember that?) on January 30, 2008, less than a year after my mother died. I have re-posted it below in honor of my mother's birthday. She would have been 66 today. This month marks 10 years since I last saw her.  This morning Therapist Seth asked me about my mom's heart. Aside from her weakened body, the clothes she wore, the few possessions she owned, and the houses she lived in (or didn't), what was the condition of her heart? She was kind, I said, and empathetic. She would take home any stray animal she found, especially if it were sick or hurt. She would give you some of whatever she had, no matter how little, if it would help. When she ran out of money, she fed her cat crumbled bread. When I needed antidepressants in high school, she had her doctor write a prescription for two pills -- then she took one, and gave me the other -- for years. When my engagement broke off in college, she sat on the phone for hours at a ...

If Facebook and Instagram are to be believed, there are women in our country who have clutter-free, artfully decorated, visitor-ready houses at all times. I suspect Mary Poppins floated in on her black umbrella, sang "Spoonful of Sugar" in a full-throated soprano, and the debris of daily life magically marched into its assigned drawers and cubbies of its own accord. I'm still waiting for her to get to my house. I have two children under age 4 and a husband who works odd hours, so my musical experience is more like Jakob Dylan repeatedly singing the line "this place is always such a mess, sometimes I think I'd like to watch it burn" from " One Headlight ." Toys and dog hair litter the floor, you can write cursive (if schools still teach it) in the dust on my bookshelves, and the counter tops are a veritable treasure trove of miscellany. One of the biggest collectors of stuff is the kitchen. Like the heart of the body collects cholesterol, the he...

Heading into the parent-teacher meeting, I was nervous. Was pushing for my son to keep Baby Doll with him at preschool a bad choice for his long-term emotional development? Am I fighting for the right decision? And what if my son's preschool teacher drew a hard line and said nobody keeps the comfort item, no way, no how ? What would I do then? I prefer everything to have a clear set of instructions. Unfortunately, parenting doesn't work like that. Without a map or guidelines, or even a glimpse of the bigger picture, we're all just guessing our way through a beautiful and dangerous labyrinth. Worry is my constant accessory, like a leaden heart-shaped pendant on a chain around my neck. All I had to go on here was what I felt, and what my kiddo felt, and some vague sense of moving forward.  Start here. "I can't go on the carpet!" my son told me emphatically. I didn't know what this meant, and the helplessness was agonizing. "Tell me what scar...

Standing under what should have been a warm, soothing shower spray, I had a sudden thought: What if my son poops his pants at school? And the school has to call me to come get him, but it's during the baby's nap time so I have to go upstairs and wake her, and I think it's easiest to take her infant carrier upstairs to plop her right inside in hopes she'd fall back asleep in the car, but then carrying her and the carrier I trip and tumble down the stairs and break my arm, and I have to call the school to say I can't come get my son because I have to call 911 and go to the emergency room and I don't know who is going to take care of either child while I'm there and my poor sweet son would have to spend an eternity standing in his soiled pants, in front of the other kids, wondering where momma was and why she wasn't coming to make this better. There in the shower, overcome with guilt and heartache and worry for my child, I felt lightheaded, hot, and v...