Between the ages of 7 and 12, I lived on a dead-end road two miles south of nowhere. There were only eight houses on the gravel road, and none had children except ours. We had something like three acres, but at that age I thought our yard went on for miles and miles. We picked blackberries that grew along the barbed wire fence to the west and ran from the snakes that sunned themselves in the overrun, empty lot across the street. But what I remember most fondly was the tree. There grew one climbable tree in the back yard. It was of indeterminable species; I only know it was the kind with thick bumpy bark that grew lacy, pale green lichen throughout the year. I dragged to my tree two old boards from a deconstructed picnic table, wedging one in the deep V that split its trunk into two Siamese twins. The other I balanced precariously among some larger branches about halfway up. I spent most of my hours playing there in my wildly complicated imaginary life. I had multiple imaginary si...

The other day I went to the mall because I was in desperate need of a new shirt for a dinner event. And I mean desperate . Most of my wardrobe is at least three years old -- the pants I decided to wear were actually approaching first-grader status. They grow up so fast, you know? Anyway, as I was traipsing from one store to the other in an unsuccessful search for something that said both spring! and I'm still young and cool!,  I found myself standing in front of JCPenney staring at an alarmingly fake garden scene. It featured emerald green Astroturf for grass (a cruel joke -- parts of our lawn are still covered in an inch of mushy snow), a profusion of ruffly pastel flowers the size of my head, and a park bench where an otherwise sane adult would pose for pictures while wearing a freakishly larger-than-life bunny suit and clutching your children. Apparently, parents will pay money for this to happen, and commemorate the surreal experience with a photo. That's when it daw...

I had high hopes for how I’d feel when I finally got pregnant. And I had plenty of time to think about it, too, because I had struggled for more than three years to get to that point. And when I say struggled, I mean pushed a boulder up a hill. Thanks to incredible modern science and the generosity of a stranger, we finally succeeded. I thought would be flooded with maternal instinct and overwhelming love for this tiny being to whom I was inexorably linked. Overnight; instantly; forever. Except once we got that boulder over the summit, we encountered many tiny boulders on the way down in the form of small pregnancy complications. I didn’t feel maternal and glow-y. I felt anxious, incredulous, and nauseous. I was first diagnosed with twins, then we lost one, then I had a complete placenta previa (which eventually resolved), then I spent the latter half of the pregnancy borderline gestationally diabetic. With my belly getting ever bigger, much of the time I felt like had an alien living...

My dear, sweet child to whom I gave life, I love you more than all the stars in the sky. Even more than all the dog hair on my carpet. But if you do not lie down and take a nap , I will come up there and knock you out myself . After all, sweet precious child, sleep is very important. It's like rain is to flowers: nourishing, tranquil, refreshing. You need sleep because you are a growing, learning, busy little boy. And because without a daily nap, you morph into a whiny, demanding asshole for the remainder of the day. I simply cannot handle that today , or any day, ever. It makes me want to snuff out that spark of life I planted in you with a loving karate-chop to your vagus nerve. Let me remind you, love of my heart. Relay races from one side of your crib to the other is not napping. Taking off all of your clothes -- AND YOUR DIAPER -- not napping. Throwing your lovey up in the air just to watch it fall and cackling maniacally, also not napping. Rolling on your back maki...

Have you ever listened to nursery rhymes? I mean really listened ? They're awful. Terrible! We've got cradles falling out of trees, a gourd-obsessed husband who can't afford to feed his wife, and a woman with no access to birth control who is forced to suffer the indignity of living in footwear. It probably wasn't even nice footwear -- like cheap knock-off Uggs you'd buy at PayLess that start to smell like cottage cheese. I don't know why these negative nursery rhymes are still a staple of parenthood, but I do know some of them are rooted in truth. London Bridge, for example, really did fall down. Or almost. The original bridge across the river Thames, built in 1176, was damaged by two major fires: one in 1663 and another in 1666. It survived, but needed constant repairs (thus the verse "build it up with wood and clay") until it was finally replaced a couple hundred years later. Research shows the chances of those who have seen both London and Fran...

My boy needs a dog or two. I've mentioned before how much richer my life is because I share it with dogs. Likewise, it's equally important to me that my child grow up with dogs. Humans at every age have a lot to learn from canines: their unabashed joy and unconditional love, among other gifts, are traits we should strive for at every stage in life. Our pets touch our lives so deeply in innumerable ways, teaching us while we are teaching them. Here are some of the reasons every child should have a dog: Empathy and compassion. It's vital to me that my child learns at a young age there are other beings in his world, living creatures that feel pain and fear, joy and love. I want him to understand that his actions toward others have consequences, good and bad, and to work toward always being kind and loving because this is the right thing to do. So we learn early that you pet dogs with gentle hands,  don't poke them in the eyes with yardsticks, and for god's sake d...

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, ...