Emily McCombs

We were at a karaoke bar on a weeknight. I was sitting near a wall-length mirror, and I felt self-conscious about my body. 

My son is particularly anxious about death. He’s generally sensitive — he’s yet to make it through a full movie because anytime there’s a minor conflict he gets too upset and we have to turn it off. We left Zootopia in the theater when the big animals were being too “mean” to the rabbit. We left a screening of Toy Story in the park because he got too anxious when Woody and Buzz got left at the gas station. (We didn’t make it to the genuinely terrifying broken toy hybrids.)

This may sound weird, but I want my own Hillary Clinton doll. I want to have her give State of the Unions on what’s in my fridge. I want to dress her up in tiny pantsuits. (I’ll place them over the one she’s already wearing.)