Kelly Burch

“How many time have I asked you….” I say in frustration, and then it hits me. The real question I should be asking is how many times I’ve uttered that phrase.

My toddler was twirling in her tutu bathing suit while I shimmied into my plus-sized polka dot bikini.

A family's day of celebration became a nation's day of mourning.

All writers have publications that are on their bucket list, and for me, The Guardian is one of those. I’ve pitched the newspaper multiple times to no avail, but I know that when it finally happens, seeing my byline in The Guardian will make for a great day.

“You have nine new messages.”

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My daughter nursed (and was supplemented with formula, then milk) for 18 months, and when we weaned, it was because we were ready. After that first bottle, I should have realized that supplementing was great for both me and my daughter.

My husband brought home his first gun while I was at work. When I came in he pointed to it proudly, while I stood firmly on the other side of the room, looking at the firearm like it was an unpredictable animal that could spring up to bite me at any moment.

Someone yelled out a racist comment, and Trump said, “Hey, I can’t say it, but he can.”

Parenting a toddler is invigorating, exhausting, dirty, and intense. But since I want my daughter to have cousins (or at least pseudo-cousins) one day, I can’t always share the truth about my tiny tyrant on social media, for fear that my friends and siblings would never reproduce. And because, sometimes, you just want to project the image that you're calm, cool, and collected.