Monthly Archives: August 2020

Milk

When the Monsters Live in Mom’s Closet

August 31st, 2020 | by Lauren Tanabe

After months of attempting every contortion that existed in the space between her mouth and my breast, it became clear that if I wanted her to have my milk (and this, I knew I needed), it would have to be pumped, squeezed, and wrung out of me


99 Problems

Not Necessary

August 28th, 2020 | by Teresa Yang

Early on I realized my dad was washing dishes without soap in the same sink where he oftentimes brushed his teeth, then storing them like wet sweaters in the unused, suspiciously moldy, dishwasher


Adoption Stories

Palindrome

August 25th, 2020 | by Jacqueline Ellis

On the new birth certificate, the adoptive parents’ names replace those of the child’s birth parents. There is a violence to this.


99 Problems

Parenting in Low Light

August 13th, 2020 | by Mimi Iimuro Van Ausdall

my vision was the least of my worries when I thought of bringing home two babies. That is how unaware of the extent of my blindness



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  • “You’ve already told me that story,” he said. Switching gears, he asked, “Why isn’t my father around?” #breastfeeding #parenting #fuckit #protest #teenagers #sexualviolence “Over time, Anabelle learned to talk about her feelings. She said saw her birthmother in the sky. She drew a picture of grief moving through her body like water. When she had more language, she began to talk about her losses.” “I’m not sure why I read that poster and thought that it applied to other mothers, other people’s children. But it probably has something to do with the shock I felt two years later when a neurologist confidently diagnosed “Autism Spectrum Disorder” and I responded with at least twenty “What about…” type questions. I had described my dynamic, interesting, loving toddler to this doctor, and her response sounded dire and clinical. That poster was the same. All of it seemed so unfortunate.” “Someone hit the call button. No one came. Someone rushed to the nurses’ station; still no one came. The contractions, a creature, twisted my uterus, lancing its nails. I tried to breathe through them, but there was no space, no time.” “But when, one-by-one, natural disasters ransacked too many of the communities we visited, including my home-state of California, I began to spiral into a grief I didn’t know how to support. I came to realize that our climate crisis wasn’t off in some far-flung future. It was here. Now. I’d birthed two perfectly good humans, boys who wanted to set up lemonade stands and play soccer, but who would be tasked instead to worry about rising seas and firestorms.” “I have to say,” my doctor said. We were still in the OR. He seemed saddened. “There was a uterine rupture. A large one. I have only seen something like this four times in my career.” “This is the part where I am supposed to articulate that taking time for myself allows me to be a better a parent, which is true. But the compulsion to footnote derives from accepting the baseline that I should feel guilty at all for taking time for myself, which I do not. I’d meet my pals for dinner, go to a movie alone, or attend a weekend bachelorette trip even if it resulted in worse parenting. Parents deserve pleasures unattached to their children.”

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