Motherhood in Alaska as chronicled by a mother of four active children. Stories, recipes, book and product reviews and lists--all with plenty of humor.
I met a life coach a few years back who promised he’d help me “become more of who I was.” He said that as though it were a good thing. I’m not so sure.
Is there something the matter with me? As a wife? Because here’s the thing: I don’t always like to do my “wifely duty.”
When I was 32, three years into my blessedly peaceful second marriage, 16 months into the motherhood gig, five months pregnant with our second child, I sat on the floor of our New York apartment in stunned silence.
Others may have begun their parenting journey with a positive pregnancy test and parenting book, but I started mine in front of the television.
Emi is ambivalent. She is five years old, losing her baby-fat and gaining the responsibilities of a kindergartener. At school she loves the thrill of being in "K," though she is anxious over the newness of it all. At home, she revels in her status as an older sibling even as she is bitterly jealous about having to share me with her brother.
The other morning, I was digging around for something in the back of my closet when I found a framed photograph I’d stashed there in one of my fits of manic tidying.