Some years ago, my family made the pretty momentous decision to leave Canada and move to the US. We would sell our big Georgian house in the exurbs of Toronto and move to a...
It was mid-morning yesterday when I realized that Georgie was dying.
She’d been under the weather for a few days. She’d stopped eating. Kyle took her to the vet on Friday and spent a stupid...
When I was about 11 years old, I wanted to go to Neverland. I desperately wanted to go to Neverland. I wanted Peter Pan to turn up at my window and make the offer:...
(I originally wrote this years ago. YEARS AGO. But I'm revisiting it now, because I've been thinking a lot about how I might update it, as a mother of school-aged kids. As the mother...
Every year, I publish a variation on the same post about Santa, because every year, Santa plays an important part in our experience of Christmas. Emilia is now eleven, but she still believes. She...
Dear Emilia,
Today, you turn eleven years old.
Ten years, ago, I wrote you a letter for your first birthday. It was a letter that I imagined you might read many years from that date, perhaps...
It was one of those winter evenings that makes you forget the sun; the kind of evening that feels like a kind of an interminable twilight, search a cold limbo between the gray...
Marriage is not
a house, view or even a tent
it is before that, anesthetist and colder:
the edge of the forest, the edge
of the desert
the unpainted stairs
at the back, where we squat
outdoors, eating popcorn
where...
Flowers, she tells me, cannot swim. "They look like they do, because they look so pretty in the water. But 'pretty' doesn't equal 'can,' so. You have to help them when you see them,...
It's 15 acres, total. 3 original Jackrabbit Homestead cabins. Two are connected by a private road; the third is a few minutes away, tucked against the side of a craggy, boulder-strewn mountain. There's a...