About Writing


Ages ago, we had a neighbor who was expecting her second at the same time I was pregnant with #3. She and I used to visit a fair bit back then, and she spent months talking about how great she felt, while I was more candid about how I spent all day lying on the couch watching my older children smash Cheetos on the floor, because meh. Her baby was born about three weeks before mine.

A year later, shortly before our conversations stopped completely, she confessed that she had experienced crushing fatigue during her pregnancy.

Well, duh. There’s a giant parasite burrowing into your bloodstream and stealing all your nutrients. Fatigue is going to be part of the process, especially during the first trimester when that whole placenta thingy is growing and establishing itself — you’re not just making a baby, you know. It doesn’t make you a weak and pathetic person to feel tired. It means you’re human, like everyone else.

I still wonder why she felt compelled to pretend otherwise.

So, here I am, pregnant with #5, and I’m tired. No, it doesn’t get easier the more times you go through it, and yes, it does freak me out a little to say “I’m expecting my fifth” — that’s starting to feel like a lot of kids. I get dizzy if I stand up too quickly, and I feel just awful in the evenings. I also love my new baby very much, and everyone is super excited.

Thankfully, my first two are now old enough that they vacuum the floor, instead of smashing snacks all over it.

About Me


In real life, I’m a 30-something stay-at-home mom with small children. I always laugh whenever the neighbors call me a hippie, because I’ve been to Earth Haven and I can’t say that I had an ounce in common with anyone there, but that’s the identity I’ve been given: the neighborhood hippie. I guess that the fact that I’ve been to a place called Earth Haven puts me closer to hippy-ism than anyone else around here.

While I get along great with the ex-bikers, sometimes I wish that I had a friend who was another 30-something mom with small children. There are a few of them around here too, but they are, you know, normal.

Sometimes I think that I ought to try being normal too, so they’ll like me and talk to me.

But that would mean leggings, memberships, and shoes.

You haven’t truly lived until you’ve stepped on a dead mouse barefoot. Now that’s a sensation that doesn’t wash away.

And I really like my bright yellow gaucho pants.

Stargirl was required reading in middle school. We all scoffed at it, dismissing it as another one of those human interest novels that our teachers always seemed to think would ease the trials of being a teenager. But now I think back on it and remind myself, being normal doesn’t make you happy. Stargirl tried it, and she was miserable. So there you have it, I had to grow up before I appreciated the message.

Gaucho pants and bare feet forever, even if that leaves me with only ex-bikers and fictional characters to chat with.

The sequel, Love, Stargirl came out after I graduated, so on a lark I decided to read it now as an adult. When the book mentioned someone giving out donuts to trick-or-treaters, it hit me why we didn’t like the original as teens, and it had nothing to do with individualism or peer-pressure: the author just didn’t know crap about Millennials. The Stargirl books are every bit as much of deluded fantasies as the tripe I write, minus the gratuitous Mary Sue-ing.

Because what’s the point in fantasizing if you don’t go all out?

Also, apparently peer-pressure fiction is a recognized genre. I feel bad for teens.