Tamarah Rockwood

"If I am holding an amber beer in my hand, I am not talking about naptimes. If I hear shop from your lips, I am ordering you three more martinis and getting you shitfaced..."

"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."

What I am not saying: "I am now going to take this opportunity to rub in your face what an inadequate parent you are for not sacrificing your entire life to homeschool your children, who you obviously don't love."

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

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.

There comes a point in every writer’s life when their brain just refuses to work.

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?