We fell in love with each other over breastfeeding, my daughter, Makela, and I. It happened during all the long hours we spent staring deep into each other’s eyes during feeding time; me, imagining how her life would unfold, she, memorizing the details of my face. If I close my eyes I can still see her smiling while attached to my breast, warm milk rolling down the side of her face, tickling her cheeks. For her my breasts meant comfort. Nursing calmed her fears, healed the hurt and soothed her to sleep.--read more >>

Dear Adolescence,

I spent years waiting for you. Even as my daughter suckled at my breast, or slipped her warm little hand in mine as we crossed the street, I knew she was under your curse. I'd heard you mutter it when she was born. I knew that even if I dedicated my entire life to burning every single spinning wheel in every single galaxy, you, Adolescence, would still find her and claim her. And not on her sixteenth birthday, either. I would be lucky to get twelve, thirteen years before you snatched her from me. --read more >>