Feature for Juno Magazine: Love After Childbirth

So proud of this feature for Juno Magazine, my first paid lifestyle byline, about the challenges of motherhood and marriage when they first butt heads. 

I'm not saying I have all the answers—or any answers, for that matter—but the response I got to this article was touching. It's so clear that not enough of us talk about the issues facing new moms, not least of which are those that relate to the care, feeding, and upkeep of a new-parent partnership. 

All I know is that when we do talk about subjects like this, a lot of us feel less alone. Enjoy.

8 Things 'I Love Dick' Got Right About Non-Monogamy

One weekend I binged-watched a show I wasn't even sure I liked, and had so many thoughts about it they got written down and published on Bust.com. Righteous! 

The Best Worst Time

What does it mean, crossing over into a new day? 'Midnight' seems like such an arbitrary line, a single mile marker on the long stretch of highway between cocktails and dawn. We sure do give it a lot of attention, though. 

It's by far the most serious of deadlines, the most shameful of snacks. The mere stroke of it can turn you in, turn you out, or get the night turnt. For the more pious, midnight is only for screenings or Christmas Mass; any later and you're up to no good—or the no-good is up to you. No bar crawl or house fight ever looks good past midnight; decisions past 12am are the stuff police blotters and Moth stories are made of. Because this is the razor edge of night: the crack where black cats haunt, where nightmares slip in. 

Yep, once realized, midnight nags you like a narc, a ticking cloud of over the rest of your evening, a curse you can shut out but not off. And when you finally do get home, if sleep's sheep are too far afield, midnight's approach and passing is the anxiety-inducing hours by the window waiting for their return.

Not that I have anything against it, really. It's not midnight's fault we blame it for our misdeeds, for missed curfews and alarms. The poor hour gets buried in sleep, demoted to the least productive part of the day. At least, for most. 

But to me, a Writer, this is dark refuge. Furthest from frenetic noon, midnight stands in opposition: a place to stop and listen, a deep well of oily ink, the fuel I find most reliable when time slips away. Midnight is the rich soil I sow ideas for tomorrow's plucking, even as it keeps me from sleep. 

Once over the irritating specificity of it, it's easy to find luxurious moments here, at the bottom of night. Still houses, fresh starts. The low, long chime of a grandfather clock. Prayers and melodies. Love and clarity. 

Lost in conversation with an old friend, midnight's the hour you exclaim over for having come so quickly. And wow, what a show-stopper on the eve of New Year's day! I know from experience: it's twitchiest, witchiest hour to ring in a first, lingering kiss. 

Midnight, you are the boldest of night; do not shelter me from slumber but from fear, lust, loneliness, heartache. Though an uncertain salve, you and you alone are my dark day's tonic. 

Someone cheated

It's cheating if your partner doesn't know about it.

It's an agreement if your partner does.

Adventurous is when you pick someone up together. 

Kinky is when everyone else is invited, too.

You're vanilla when just the usual will do. 

You're GGG--good, giving, and game--when anything (within reason) keeps it new.

Date night keeps you close. Dating secondaries keeps you on your toes.

If monogamous: love is static and finite. 

If poly: love is a fluid, renewable resource. 

If "monogam-ish", take your pick:  liquid, solid, or gas. 

Water to quench, clouds to clear, ice to preserve.

Sleight of hand

A passionate child, madly in love with an idea or object, who is also observant and fully dedicated to their cause, will be steadfast in their pursuit. Lying in wait they are catlike in their watching, waiting for the slip they know will come, alert to your movements and open to improvise. Patience—a virtue that is otherwise quite unfamiliar to your busy child—is, in this moment, not only possible, but a work of mastery. Should your language lapse, your attention break, your sleight of hand fail, this whiff of opportunity is like blood on the wind, a pile of meat on a platter you’ve served up for maximum, and persistent, exploitation. Nothing, not one thing, is as desirous to a lovesick child as a current infatuation—whether a steep staircase, an expensive guitar, or an unsupervised bowl of berries.