Kate Ryan

Motherhood is easily the toughest, most sacred job on earth. Without moms, the human race simply wouldn’t be here. But personally, I’d rather dangle myself from dental floss over a volcano full of spiders than push another human being out of my body.

Writing simply does for me what long walks do for small dogs; it makes me tired and happy.

It was a tradition of theirs. When siblings Sue and Johnny went home to their mother’s for Christmas, they watched the 11 o’clock local news.

She gropes for attention while he dies in the other room.

Surviving the Apocalypse didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy a little romance.

"No self-respecting journalist or publication would ever hire someone who employs the word 'sh--' as a title for anything."

A bloated mother in her polka dot one-piece gnaws on a corndog while reading the romantic pulp she picked up on her way out of the supermarket . . .

One of my biggest fears is having a random stranger ask me, "how it’s going?" They might as well ask if I’d like to step into their van and get murdered.

She doesn’t know how to communicate the feeling that all is for nothing, nothing is normal.

She knows you’re not supposed to call it an “it,” but she honestly can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl or . . . undecided.