Do you remember what I was like back then, a food stamps kid so out of place among the shiny glass towers and $150 designer jeans and yet you hired me despite the uncertainty in my eyes and my lack of marketing experience but I guess I write a good cover letter and I can still remember how expensive the stores smelled and the Alamo-shaped facade of the building where I cut my teeth and I wanted so much to be as cool as you, so devil-may-care with your tinted glasses lenses and longish hair and gravelly voice and not a one of my business classes ever mentioned how much swearing there'd be in a creative office but not me I never said the right thing, never fit in, never rocked to the easy rhythm of belonging even that summer when most of the building went to happy hour every Thursday and I learned how to drink with all the young up-and-comings in Midtown and Deep Ellum and Lower Greenville and you used to rib me joking asking if you could buy my first and last drink because I'd h...

It began on May 1 with an email saying a request had been made to change my Facebook password. I hadn't made that request. More of these emails followed in quick succession, a few minutes apart. It was like being in labor, but instead of me birthing a baby, a hacker was spawning fraudulent access into my thoughts, locations, photos, and feelings.  With every email I got, I clicked on the blue square that said "This wasn't me." But that didn't relieve these troublesome pains. Instead, an email was delivered that said Facebook had detected a suspicious login near Seattle - 2,400 miles away from where I sat.  To increase security, I have two-factor authentication (2FA) on my account - with every login, a code is sent to my cell phone that also has to be entered to access my information. But somehow the fraudulent login didn't trigger a code, and the 2FA didn't prevent the hacker from getting in.  So I requested a security code from Facebook, got into my accou...

Did you know you can do less?  It's a secret you won't find on social media or in organized moms groups, but it's true. Did you know that when your children have to be at outdoor soccer practice for two hours, and it's cloudy and windy, you can let them go practice in the chilly evening air while you stay in the car and read a book?  You don't have to pace on the sidelines for two hours to keep warm while your sweet child runs ladders or practices defense, oblivious to your existence, under the tutelage of a volunteer soccer coach.  You can sit in a comfortable seat in the warm air of your car and immerse yourself in a good story. Nobody will even try to stop you.  How to survive soccer practice: don't And when it's time for the Easter Bunny to make its appearance, did you know you can do less there too? You don't have to buy a toddler pool and fill it with books and Legos, pool toys and two-pound chocolate bunnies. You don't have to stuff 100 bright...

It's spring.  The world is rubbing its sleepy eyes and stumbling out of bed. The birds are singing from budding tree branches and (when it gets a little warmer) the bees will begin their rounds.  It's time to talk about sex.  Not how babies are made. As has been tradition at least since I was a child, in the spring of fifth grade students gather together at school to sit in uncomfortable silence while a teacher explains the basics of puberty and human reproduction.  Body hair, growth spurts, and menstrual periods, oh my.  I knew my son would get these lessons this school year, and I wanted to get ahead of it. By talking with him beforehand, I hoped to make him more comfortable while also giving him solid, fact-based information before he could hear rumor, innuendo, and falsities from his friends or classmates. Unfortunately, I held a lot of untrue and unhelpful ideas about sex and sexuality when I was young. And I didn't know all the parts of my own anatomy unti...

The picture is not of my mother's hand.  It's a stranger's hand, an anonymous woman's palm pressed flat against a sea of grainy white-gray snow.  The fingers are gently stretched straight. Waves of wrinkles rise over knuckles, like maybe the joints feel a little slow and stiff of late. The nails are short and rounded – practical but well kept – and ever so slightly discolored in silent acknowledgement of mature age. Three tendons stand out in ridges on the back of the hand, a testament of strength. Against a background of tawny skin, roadmaps of blue-green veins crisscross, telling of all the places it's been.  The hand is held next to the imprint of a wild animal's foot – bear or wolf, I can't remember – to illustrate the awesome size and impact of nature. But it's not the paw I care about. I've cropped most of the footprint out of the picture like so many forgotten details.  I desperately want to hold that hand.  I want to reach through the...

When I walk downstairs, I touch the handrail on my right as I go. It's not a conscious thought, just a place to grab and steady myself as I take a first step. Neither my grip nor the weight of my hand is strong, and my palm is against the wood for only a second. But after six-and-a-half years, there's a faint yet noticeable spot of wear on the railing from my regular touches. A few inches of dark cherry stain is beginning to rub away, revealing the lighter oak underneath. It's indelible proof of a habit I didn't realize I had, because it had become so routine.  I am here. As a woman, as a mom, I often feel invisible. Clean laundry magically appears in the basket, sinks mysteriously become wiped spotless, permission slips miraculously show up signed and tucked into folders. Little thought is given, even by me, to the things I touch every day.  I recently noticed this mark on the railing and wondered where it had come from, then realized it's me - it's evidence of...

The weight was almost unmanageable.   When I was young my mother owned a manual typewriter, all metal and heft. It came in a box like a suitcase with a latch and plastic handle, and I was certain it weighed more than I did.  The machine itself was cream and gray with seafoam-green accents straight out of the 1960s. It smelled of ink and machine oil. Trapezoid keytops bore letters in a san-serif font on heavy plastic, and there was no number 1 - my mom explained the lowercase L doubled for the number. The keybasket where all the typebars come together was embossed with the silver words "De Luxe" atop a wash of seafoam.  The keys didn't yield like computer keyboards nowadays - back then if I wanted to communicate I had to put effort behind it, jam my point home with just my index fingers. On that machine my mom taught me my first typed sentence, about the goings-on of a quick red fox and a lazy brown dog.  I didn't have much else to write about in elementary school. I ...