Reading picture books aloud is a tradition in many homes. The other tradition? Kids who pick out the same books over and over again.
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I cannot protect my young children from the news. Despite our strict restrictions on internet and television, President Trump’s face and words loop constantly.
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Donald seems to like the idea of reading more than the physical action. He gathers books beyond his reading level and stacks them up to form barriers on his table
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I am worried that I am a bad mom. Both my kids do tell me I am the worst. “You are the worst!” they scream, slamming things against the floor.
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I love how bold you are!" my friend from college said when she saw me step off a plane wearing leopard-print leggings.
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They were an architect’s dream and they certainly improved the view. But they also had darker unintended consequences. Leila Sinclaire has this Perspective.
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Some children barrel toward unfamiliarity without a second thought. Super tall slide in the park? Yes! A chance to touch a boa constrictor?
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School's out for the summer! Yay! But now what? You only have one or two weeks of vacation time: How will you keep the kids entertained for the other eight weeks, especially without breaking the bank?
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How do I de-emphasize looks and material things for my children when I care so much about them myself? Last night I attended a talk on the topic “Raising Resilient Girls.”
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I am curvy. My Italian-American mother is straight out of a Botticelli painting and my dad is a sort of Scottish Viking. My ample backside in particular earns me lots of unwanted attention.
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We moved back to Berkeley, California from Brooklyn, New York because we wanted to start a family. It was a long, hot drive across the country with our furniture and our dog.
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Why don’t people warn you about new parenthood like they do about stealing, lying, or sex? When you tell me you are pregnant, and I say “Congratulations,” what I mean is: You’re screwed.
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There was a family I loved—brilliant mom, sensitive dad, lovely boy—and once they stopped by unannounced for a visit to the tiny studio apartment where our family of four lived like puppies in a cardboard box.
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I’ve heard the millennial generation called the “me, me, me generation,” though I prefer to think of us as the “yes, we can” generation.
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From the age of 10, I spent June, July and August blissed out at sleepaway summer camp. First it was Camp Miniwanca, the quintessential semi-Christian pseudo-Native American tribal
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I am brave. Or maybe just blissfully unaware of danger. At night, I walk alone down alleys. In inclement weather, I drive at regular speed.
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What in the world was I to do with a boy child in my home? Mothers of boys got sliced by helicopter rotor blades and stepped on wayward Legos.
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I went to the dentist the other day, and it was awful as usual. The waiting. The scraping of metal. The condescending warnings about not flossing enough.
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Once I felt confident that toddler Milo would not drown in our ugly pink bathtub if I left the room, I often strapped infant Ruby to my chest and used Milo’s bath time to clean up the nightly dinner hurricane.
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When I started attending prenatal swim classes at the Downtown Berkeley YMCA, I was horrified by the languid pace. I was used to the thumping frenzy of spandex in step aerobics and kickboxing.
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