Gemma Hartley

“Feminism” wasn’t a word I heard much growing up. When I did hear it, I equated it with a historical event, not a work in progress. I thought first-wave feminism was a one-and-done deal, and that all the work necessary for women’s equality had already been accomplished.

Mom friends were the ones to whom you were supposed to spill all those dark parenting thoughts. I wanted that mom-magic. I knew it was out there somewhere.

You are a professional. You want to handle your business with a certain air of sophistication. You want to tell them "f*ck no," but want to do so graciously, tactfully — you are, after all, a wordsmith.

My six-year-old son got into the car after school and declared he only wanted to have one kid when he grew up.

I’m not saying there is no joy to motherhood. I go through periods where I do feel like I’m at my parenting best. There are times when I’m overwhelmed with gratitude for the amazing life and children I’ve been given. It can be so, so good. But what I’m saying is, it doesn’t always have to feel like that.

Clearly, it does not take long for my over-ambition to turn me from a vision of perfection into a train wreck you can't look away from. Behold, my first week of school splendor, versus my second week of school ineptitude.

When my son was little, I used to let him win board games a lot.

Getting pregnant after postpartum depression may have stolen a lot from me, but it gave me a lot more.

There is a time to be prudent and fair to “many sides” of an issue, but dealing with Nazis is not that time.