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For New York Times Parenting, I wrote about a cat that I adopted in May, and the surprise that came along with her.
Finally, I moved the couch away from the wall, inch by careful inch, so I could understand what was actually happening here. And I counted. Six. There were six kittens, all alive, all latched and eating well. Six new animals inhabiting my apartment in the midst of a pandemic that seemed to have no end. I’d been scraping at my yellow wallpaper for weeks, but I suddenly felt the walls closing in around me in a wholly new and fascinating way.
For The Cut, I wrote about the passing of a hero.
I didn’t tell her the star of Black Panther was dead, not yet. I wasn’t ready to. The thrill of seeing a larger-than-life story of adventure, bravery, love, and pride, rendered so masterfully with characters who looked and felt like me — that’s what I wanted to share with her on Saturday.
For The Cut, I vented a bit about the wtf-ness of this moment for working parents.
The year is more than half over, and still I wake up with little clue as to how I will handle the oncoming challenges of the day, much less think through the week, the month, the coming fall. Daily reality feels untenable, because it is. When there is no clear finish line, no date circled in an internal calendar to act as a beacon in these dark hours, time loses much of its significance. When you become a parent, exhortations to “live in the moment” become as commonplace as burp cloths and diaper ads. This isn’t how any of us imagined fulfilling that particular aspiration.