Tamarah Rockwood

Kathryn Schulz from The New Yorker has warned the entire West Coast of an eminent natural disaster. Apparently, the Western coastline has this crazy fault line that has stretch marks called the “Cascadia subduction zone.” And it is in these subduction zones which we are all going to die.

And there are some things missing in my life. Things I was promised on The Jetsons, by Jane Jetson herself. Man, I watched that show and saw the future! That’s where we were headed, my friends. Flying cars were part of the package of the future.

The truth is, my kids are not going to grow a deeper character thanks to perfect floors. Granted, it will make life easier for me, no doubt: there are few things that make my stomach drop than walking into a room that I just cleaned, and seeing a spoonful of peanut butter just sitting on the floor (I have an accomplished toddler). Peanut butter on the floor, or on the counter, or on the tablecloth — or anywhere other than on a piece of bread — is frustrating.

"Who puts folded shirts on top of your closet shelf? I can hardly reach the hangers, alone. Honestly, people."

"Impostor Syndrome is the unwanted caboose on the train of motherhood. It is the trailing thoughts that give you the absurd ideas that you are a fraud."

Was I hungry? Was it low blood sugar? Were my feet falling off? Was I crazy? Was I dying?

Before I discovered I had celiac, I ate whatever I desired. Since discovering this autoimmune blessing (yes, blessing), I research what food I am, not only putting into my body, but into my family’s as well. I taught myself how to cook nutritious food from scratch that actually tastes amazing (these two do not always go hand-in-hand).

I couldn’t listen to another puerile sales pitch in someone’s living room, promising the moon and then selling you something that “tastes just like sugar.” (It doesn’t. Not even sort of.)

I worry about the food I give them. I worry about the clothes we have for them. I stress over the amount of time I spend with them . . . or don’t spend with them. When is it enough, and when is it overpowering?

You are being a dick if you intentionally create drama in a friendly conversation. You argue about everything from politics, to career choices, to shoe choices, to the quality of people around you to the quality of the pizza you ordered. No one cares about your opinions regarding pepperoncinis on pizza.