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