You ought to have paid more attention the last time the kids and I forced you to watch Ghostbusters. Had you done so, perhaps the pestilence that has infested our household could have been averted. Sadly, my love, I fear it is now too late. Certainly, the suede recliner where I rock your infant son to sleep every night did not benefit from its sudden dousing in neon goo. Nor will the first full-sized quilt I ever made (at 15,

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My boys were three and four when I became a single-mother, and like many divorced women, I felt a new sense of empowerment and the urge to don a self-knitted pussy hat (even though those weren’t a thing yet.) At the top of my list of ways to help the world, was ensuring that my children did not grow up to be like their father. I immediately started working to support our little family. I also went back to school. 

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I braced myself as the 3:30 silence was shattered by the sound of thunder on the stairs followed by a ghastly thud. A door slammed so hard the parakeet’s teeth shook. This was Chris’ subtle way of announcing he was home from school. I knocked on his vibrating door. “Hi Chris, what are you up to?” No answer. “Chris, do you have some illicit substance in there?” “No.” “A girl?” “Aw, Ma.” “I know,” I said triumphantly, “You’re reading.” He

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15 years ago, when my friends started getting pregnant, one asked me, “Mary, do you want kids?” My answer was “I’m so far away from it that I can’t even fathom fathoming it.” I didn’t feel comfortable around small children. They smelled different from adults and were unpredictable conversationalists. I didn’t melt at a child’s cuteness. I wasn’t charmed by their precious demeanor. I tried to spend as little time with them as possible. So, it may seem odd that

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