Her name was Jackie and we were cruel to her.

She lived in a small, weather-worn house across the street from our school. She wore the same out-of-style clothes every day. They were stained and frayed. Her hair was never combed, and her homework was rarely done. For these crimes, a court of spoiled and selfish fifth-grade girls sentenced her to a year of hard time as the target of jokes, disdain, and teasing.

I was on the jury.

Decades later, I look back on those playground moments with a great deal of shame and embarrassment. I think the worst thing we did to Jackie was the plot to make her think we were going to let her in our group (dubbed “The Magnificent Seven” by a teacher) all the time knowing we were going to ostracize her a few days later. The plan was to tell her how rich we were, how we vacationed in amazing places, and how our parents drove multiple expensive cars. Isn’t it amazing we want to be your friend, Jackie? You must be special!

Our plan worked perfectly. Read on …

When my husband and I announced our fifth child was on the way, a friend asked if we knew what caused that.

I told him I suspected it had something to do with my practice of washing my underwear with my husband’s.

I regretted the snarky comeback immediately, but I know why I unleashed my frustration.

The misconceptions, prejudices, and near-constant scrutiny of our choice to have a large family is tiresome and often grounded in ignorance. Only slack-jawed rubes from the sticks, religious zealots, or those taking advantage of the government and natural resources have large families, right? Sometimes, people who see our family assume all of the above. I’m thinking we should start carrying banjos and moonshine jugs around, just to complete the effect.

The questions are relentless: Read on …

Scene: Typical state university dorm room of 2022—poster of Kermit the Frog, lava lamp, mini stainless steel fridge, UN flag round out the decor. A group of freshman students lounge on the beds and floor. They pass around an Xtreme Red Bull Brand Pomegranate and Ultraviolet Baby Leaf Tea Wine Cooler with DHA and ARA and a candy cigarette. We join the conversation in media res.

Blayden: Steve or Joe?

Emmayden: Joe! Mr. Noodle or Mr. Noodle’s brother, Mr. Noodle?

Poppy: Totally Mr. Noodle. Did you hear Mr. Noodle died when his head exploded after eating too many pieces of popcorn chicken? It’s too bad they had to stop making them.

Joel: Yeah. When I was like four-years-old that was all I ate.

Cecilia: Me too!

Joel: I think my mom probably wrote about it on her blog. Like everything else.

Hannah-Savannah: Tell me about it. My mom had like five blogs.

Joel: My mom had one, then three, then one again, then two. I bet there are still blogs out there she has hasn’t updated in fifteen years.

Savannah-Montana: Did she have a digital camera? Read on …

My skin has so many moles, I nearly qualify as my own animal print. I’m waiting on a World Wildlife Federation panel to approve my application. By next fall, you could be seeing Gretchen-print hot pants, bustiers, and gladiator shoes on D-list celebrities and Gwyneth Paltrow.

Because I am liberally sprinkled with moles in all shapes, sizes, and colors, I recently visited a dermatologist to make sure none of them look threatening or even mildly irked. My skin is damaged from the sun-soaked summers of my teen years, when I was too cool for Coppertone. Between biology and stupidity, I am a ticking time bomb.

After taking my medical history, the doctor left me to put on the paper gown for the examination. I waited for several minutes, which was enough time to gawk at the posters of melanomas, squamous cell carcinomas, and basal cell carcinomas. Nothing on my body looked like the pictures. I felt myself relaxing, certain none of the moles I sport come near the devastation in the photos. A soft knock brought the doctor and an assistant back into the room.

I was a bit surprised it was going to take two people to peer at my spots, until I realized the assistant was going to draw the location of my moles on a body map for my permanent record. Read on …

A few nights ago, we had tilapia filets for dinner. Joel, age four, remarked on the color of the meat. He wondered why fish is always white. My husband told him some fish, like salmon and tuna, are pinkish or orange.

Joel said, “I know what tuna is. It’s mermaid meat.”

The cans of tuna in the cupboard feature a smiling blonde mermaid on the label. It’s is false advertising when you are a four-year-old boy who judges the contents of the can by the label outside. Hopefully he doesn’t think the cans of O-shaped pasta in red sauce contain a little smiling Chef.

My pre-reading son goes through life bombarded by signs and symbols. Restaurants and junk foods have perfected this art. When my kids were mere toddlers, they could recognize the golden arches sign as the wellspring of french fries and deep-fried chicken chunks.

Savvy marketers trumpet a certain restaurant where a kid can be a kid. Read on …

Every pregnancy ends.

Ideally, a pregnancy ends with an ice-chip-fueled marathon of contracting, pushing, or with the flash of a scalpel in an operating room. A bundled baby with goopy eyes and a little hat is placed into welcoming arms, at last. Cameras capture, footprints are rocked onto scrapbook paper, a name is given. When you want to have a baby, this is the dream come true.

Unfortunately, 25% of pregnancies do not have a happy outcome. They end too early, in miscarriage or stillbirth.

I have had four miscarriages. My most recent pregnancy loss was this past March, so it is still fresh and the wound slightly raw. I’ve found that many people don’t know what to say. Why should they? While a lot of women have found themselves in this club, most have not.
Read on …

School is sucking my son’s love of reading down a greasy, hair-lined drain and I’m afraid it won’t come back.

My handwringing may seem dramatic and over-the-top, but you didn’t just spend three hours trying to a second-grader to read a book for his homework. This is a boy who taught himself how to read at age four, who read everything from soup labels to his big sister’s chapter books as a Kindergartner. We beamed at his ability and greed to read. With literally hundreds of books on our playroom shelves, he had plenty to keep him busy for years to come.

But it hasn’t worked out that way. Reading is drudgery to him. Parents are told if children see them reading, they are more likely to raise a reader. We are bombarded by book fairs and fliers sent home in backpacks encouraging us to spend more and more money on books. Our shelves burst. My husband and I have bachelor’s degrees in English Literature, so reading isn’t just a passing fad around here. We write a check to a company in Iowa every month, paying for the privilege of having those diplomas in a box in our closets.

I want to make it clear my gripe isn’t with my children’s teachers. I genuinely like them and have no worries while my kids are in their care. I realize they must follow curriculum guidelines. My main concern is how schools today handle reading homework. It is actively eroding their love of reading - I can see it, and I hate it.

What is it they used to say when we were kids? Reading is FUNdamental! I submit the FUN has been carefully carved out in the name of state-mandated testing and fear of failure. Reading, as an act, has been reduced to something to compare and measure. It is just damental. Read on …