Because competitive parenting is not a real sport.
The minibus driver pulled out without looking, just as my twelve-year-old passed on her bike. Two taxis, caught behind her, began call-and-response honking. She sped up, but so did the minibus driver, drag-racing my little girl on the traffic-choked streets of this dusty Colombian town. My husband and I had assumed the English-speaking bike tour... Continue Reading →
Last weekend, at the finca [farm] of our Spanish teacher’s mother deep in the Zona Cafeteria where all the coffee made famous by Juan Valdez is grown, the soundtrack in my head was Talking Heads’ Once in a Lifetime. You know, the part where they sing, And you may find yourself living in a shotgun... Continue Reading →
Every morning, after some form of eggs (because eggs are plentiful, healthy and I can cook them with the meager selection of tools available in my rental kitchen) and tropical fruit (to remind us all why we’re here), we walk a kilometer and a half from our apartment to Ana’s apartment, where we leave our... Continue Reading →
I had a bit of a breakdown during my junior year of college, if “breakdown” is the right work for an episode that ended with me not sleeping for six straight days and getting to know the staff of Psych Services quite well. It was triggered by a number of things. A boy, the first... Continue Reading →
The World's Okayest Mom 