In my last post Pride, I noticed (after re-reading my work at least 25 times) that I had committed the crime of gender bias. This was truly an ironic piece of work given that Pride is an article that newly announced to the world my transgender son. I asked my readers if they too found the error. None of them did.

The bravest act I’ve ever witnessed was at a gas station off a highway in the middle of nowhere California.

For the past few weeks, while I’m driving back from dropping a kid at school or attending a final meeting, I find myself winding my way through the hills of Oak View and crying.

Sunday, I spent several hours sitting with a friend at a bar. And while that last sentence was my most used excuse in my 20’s for why I hadn’t called my mother in months, it happens to be a now rare event.

We are on Day 4 of a teen mental meltdown and we are exhausted. The tears, the silence, the blind fear gripping her by the ankles, dragging her down. It takes every ounce of strength I have to hold onto her, pull her up and out, back into the light.

In about two weeks, the Home and Garden Television Network will be calling to tell me I’ve won their Dream House Sweepstakes and the people of Warren, VT are waiting with open arms.

I’m a 50 year old mom. Occasionally, I’m up for a good “whoa, this chick’s mess is about 1,000 degrees hotter than mine” show. This is how I found myself watching Netflix’s new series, “The Woman in the House Across the Street from the Girl in the Window”.