You lay your hand against his skin and just rib his back. Blow into his ear. Press that baby up against your own skin and walk outside with him, where the night air will sourround him, and moonlight fall on his face. Whistle, maybe. Dance. Hum. Pray. (how to calm a crying baby)

I have no doubt that over the years my children will find plenty of things about me to criticize. But something tells me that twenty years from now not one of them will sit on some therapist's couch complaining because their mother didn't spend enough time vacuuming up glitter.

Many women my age have known the experience of giving up crucial parts of themselves to please the man they love.

I continued to protect him with my silence.

Those who rhapsodize about the ease and joy of childhood have perhaps forgotten what it's like to be 12 years old.

The vehemence with which certain critics have chosen not simply to criticize what I've written, but to challenge my writing this story at all, speaks of what the book is about: fear of disapproval.

If I told you about all the stories I don't tell, I would be violating the very boundaries I set for myself.