The first inkling my husband had that I was thinking about suicide was when he checked my blog.

I was a lesbian for a semester at Wesleyan - it was a graduation requirement.

I think it's worth trying to be a mother who delights in who her children are, in their knock-knock jokes and earnest questions. A mother who spends less time obsessing about what will happen, or what has happened, and more time reveling in what is.

In fact if I see you drinking I'll come down on you like a ton of bricks and call your mom.

You can take the babushka off the Jewish mother and dress her up in a pair of Seven jeans and Marc Jacobs sling-backs, but she's still going to expect a passel of grandkids.

As a parent, the only thing I am absolutely certain of is my own fallibility.

I’ve sometimes thought that it’s only by recalling that desperate devotion my kids once felt for me that I can maintain my own desperate devotion in the face of their adolescent sneering.