Gemma Hartley

I wish I had realized there was no such thing as being too young to have mental health issues. That there was nothing shameful about postpartum struggles.

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

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.

When I made the decision to become a stay-at-home mother, the choice was an easy one.

How was I supposed to tell my son, who was already preoccupied and frightened by the idea of death, that his new little brother or sister was gone, that I'd had a miscarriage? I didn't know. So I lied.

I don't want motherhood to be where my life begins and ends. Sure, we can still talk about our kids, commiserate, and share in one another's parenting accomplishments — but at some point, we need to be more than mere storytellers of our children's lives.

I hate some of the things I see my friends and family post on Facebook.

Sometimes, I think back to all the ridiculous things I did for boys when I was younger and cringe.

I know it won't be long until he can read the headlines before I can bury the truth. He will learn to read, and then to suffer. Words will haunt him.

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