Capitalism

“Make America Great Again” with Trump bumper stickers. All over your car. And your neighbor’s car. “America” means cis, hetero, white/orange men in charge.

This may sound weird, but I want my own Hillary Clinton doll. I want to have her give State of the Unions on what’s in my fridge. I want to dress her up in tiny pantsuits. (I’ll place them over the one she’s already wearing.)

Getting rid of all of your stuff is all well and good if you are childfree, but if you have the fortune (or misfortune) to have children, they literally will not let you.

And when you're multiply marginalized and know how much work there is to be done in the struggle for liberation, how few people are doing it, and that our lives literally depend on it, it can feel like you’re letting your people down.

I am at the bar, working on a piece about kids’ books, while my wife stays home to mind the baby. The lady next to me strikes up a conversation about this and that. Then she notices that I’m still casually clutching a copy of Guess How Much I Love You?

My relationship with body is anything but “typical.” So far, I’ve hated my body at every size — and not just because of my size.

Back when we decided to have a baby together, we had a plan. She was never, ever going to have to work full-time. She was going to work part-time, and I was going to work part-time, selling dog food at that cute little store I used to work at. We would have one day off a week in common, and we would be broke, but we would get by. We would be tired, but we would be happy.

I am not middle class. Tiny houses are touted as an affordable solution, but they’re still more house than I can afford.