Gemma Hartley

As a freelancer who works from home, I get the best of both worlds as a parent.

A breakup, Mom, a cheerleading competition, and Valentine's Day...

Welcome to #RavsWriters, an opportunity for you to get to know some of th

I want and need to save some room for myself, to know that I am worthy of a place in the world without the label of mother.

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

When my son was a baby, I used my husband as a second set of hands. He was my co-parent, the other caretaker... I was no longer viewing him as my partner, but rather as an aide to attaining the next level of mothering. Even though my husband never called me out on my behavior, I slowly but surely hung up my need for perfection. Because if being a great mother means being a crappy wife, I don't want any part of it.

She is the type of woman I hope my daughter looks up to, a successful feminist role model if there ever was any. She is strong in the face of adversity. She does not cower when criticized. She knows that her words and actions are powerful, and is not afraid of those who would call her bossy, grating, shrill, yelling — when all she is really doing is being a leader. It is powerful for a growing girl to watch a woman like that thrive.

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

Becoming an adult didn’t magically open me up to their world and their psyche as I thought it would. Even having children of my own did little to unravel the mystery of my parents, because I wasn’t really interested in exploring honestly. I have always been concerned with who my parents were in relation to me, not who they were on their own.

At Santa Rosa Christian School, dancing was a gateway drug. The gyrating, the slow romantic swaying...