The Female Crazy …

I was fifteen years old the first time I called my mother a bitch ($0.25).  My own daughter returned the favor when she was just four.

It happened on a hectic morning after I had told Anna to put her gymnastics leotard on as I was getting into the shower.  It was inside-out, so she took it downstairs to my husband, who didn’t understand why she had brought it downstairs and told her to put it away.  Caught between two mis-communicating parents and too young to articulate to either of us that she was at an impasse, she began to melt down.  Eventually my husband put her in Time Out for not listening and that set in motion a series of events that forever changed the way I view my daughters, myself and women in general.

Continue reading

The truth about my big family …

People peruse my blog or my Facebook page, see the gaggle of children that call me mom, and seem genuinely befuddled as to how I manage such pandemonium. When I leave the house, kids in tow, folks always want to know “Are they all yours?”, “How do you do it?” and “Where is the man who got you into this mess?”.

Continue reading