In the ‘Beloved,’ ‘The Baby,’ and ‘Barbarian,’ Black women grapple with vengeful mothers and children. In my life, I’ve broken that cycle.
I can’t give up the invisible labor of making “holiday magic” because that’s how I feel closest to my late mother.
Is Kate McCallister a “good mom”? That’s beside the point. Her example shows the shallowness of such standards: She loves her kid. She proves it.
All these self-styled experts online drown out the intuitive voice of the parent and sow doubt in every decision that they make.
The wall that divided us in those early weeks of my first child’s infancy became a continued separation.
My daughter understands object permanence—the idea that what vanishes continues to exist. As the planet warms, I worry I may have oversold the concept.
In the emergency room waiting for a potential diagnosis, I soothe myself with loops of pudgy toddlers tripping into the antics of babyhood over and over again.
My affirmations teach me the things I still need to learn.
I grieved the chance to have an uncomplicated pregnancy. I grieved the fact that having more babies could be potentially fatal. And I grieved a younger, more carefree me.