As a mother, eating out has become a double-edged sword. It is easier to have someone else do the dishes, however I have to deal with the constant threat of my children taking over the restaurant. Patrons at nearby tables might be struck by a flying saltshaker or assaulted by a shoe thrown in a fit […]

“Don’t tell Joe,” she said on the phone. “I won’t,” I reassured my Nana. A check arrived in the mail earlier that day, a gift from Nana. Joe was my grandfather, well, step-grandfather. Nana was always sending me checks: checks for winter coats, long distance phone bills, birthdays, holidays, and replacement windows for my first

“I can’t get enough of family,” said the text at 8:00pm Sunday night. I glanced at the phone for barely a second and decided to shut the phone off for the night. “It can’t be that bad?” shrieked my mother though the phone. “It is.” I shrieked back. This is a nightmare. This was not

I remember my first kiss. I remember the smell of his bad breath. I remember the awkward way his tongue darted around my mouth and my urge to wipe his saliva off my face the first chance I got. I remember thinking how weird it was to let someone stick their tongue in my mouth.

They were sitting on their little toddler beds the first time I heard one of them say it. “I don’t like Black people.” said my 3-year-old daughter. I was horrified. I searched through the crevasses of my mind trying to determine where she could have picked up something like that. A moment later, one of

“You’ll have to forgive me.” says my 85 year old Nana on the phone. I couldn’t go out to get you a Valentine’s Day card. I wince at the words. She tells me that it is hard for her to get out now. Now that she is old. Wince. Now that she uses a walker.

It started with a pain running down my leg and across my back. At first I hardly noticed it, but later the pain grew. I noticed that I would look with dread upon life’s smallest inconveniences, such as dropping a pencil, or after getting into bed, if I forgot to turn the light out, I