May 2, 2022. Twelve days postpartum. Ten pre-dawn mornings since I pressed my hands to the low curved ceiling inches from my face and realized I had woken up in an MRI machine. Eight nights back in my own bed. My baby remained in the hospital’s Level II
Writer and cultural critic Claire Dederer’s Paris Review essay, "What Do We Do With The Art Of Monstrous Men?" indirectly addressed the Male Genius. The piece was written by a woman, not about a woman. She is trapped behind the glow of a laptop. She is me,
Gender dynamics have plagued me with the strength of daycare viruses in the nearly four years since I became a parent—specifically, a mother, a word loaded with societal expectations. I struggled to write after G. was born. I followed the conventional wisdom to nap while the baby napped, even
The Gabriel Network sign that infuriates me the most appears outside the Shrine of the Most Blessed Sacrament. It is a parish on the way to my mother-in-law’s house, off Chevy Chase Circle. Western Avenue cuts across, dividing the neighborhood into Maryland and Washington, D.C. turfs.
“Pregnant? Alone? Afraid?” The blue and white signs interrogate passersby and drivers. It is impossible for me to ignore the scaled-down wooden billboards staked into the grounds of various Catholic churches throughout Maryland and Washington, D.C. I am an abortion journalist. I do not like how the questions
💡Where the personal grudge is always political. The baby will not stop crying. G is 17 months old in September 2023. She is a good sleeper but today, she resists her afternoon nap. Put her in the car, I think, I hope, and she'll pass out. Instead her