There’s a buzz happening in Beverly Hills over a group of women who call themselves the “Marijuana Moms.”
Many of the members of this loosely-knit group of pot-smoking parents smoke the wacky weed in order to relax or cope with chronic pain. In addition, they meet regularly for lavish dinners where the herb is a key ingredient in dishes like cannabis leaf salad, chicken fried in cannabis oil and marijuana milk shakes, Orange News UK reported.
Cheryl Shuman, a 53-year-old mother of two, said the group’s joint mission is to show that smoking marijuana makes them better parents and better wives. Read more on Huffington Post…
I’ve written candidly about Mother’s Day and all the ways I think the commercialization of it fucks up our relationships with our moms. My own relationship with my mom has been easy because … well, she’s awesome. But my complex relationship to fatherhood makes both talking and writing about it difficult.
There are two people in my life that I call Dad – my biological father and my stepfather. I have very different relationships with each of them and writing about one without mentioning the other feels like a weird act of disloyalty. But this Father’s Day, I’m letting go of that and writing about redemption and it’s relationship to fatherhood.
My biological father has a colorful past; he talks openly and nostalgically about his time as a drug dealer and his stint in prison. I remember bits and pieces of it. One time when I was small, my mother took my sister and me and my brother to the prison to see him. We pressed our dirty, little hands against the impassable glass partition that separated us and talked over a black phone that connected the two sides of the glass. When my dad was released, my parents were separated and we were shuffled back and forth between them every other weekend. My parents were young when they had my twin sister and me — just 21 and 22. Now, having a brother who is 25 and a father, it puts into perspective what it must have been like for my dad to have kids at that age. Keep reading »
Last year for Father’s Day, we ran a series of interviews with real-life dads divulging their wisdom on raising independent, vibrant girls. Dads Raising Daughters turned out really lovely, so I’m making a fledgling Frisky tradition of it! This year for fatherly parenting advice, I turned to Josh, who has two girls ages eight and five; Jim, who has a nine-year-old; and James, whose daughter is three.
First up, what these dads want to teach their daughters about love and dating… Keep reading »
When I first read a review of Lauren Sandler’s new book, One and Only: The Freedom Of Having An Only Child And The Joy Of Being One , I was hopeful. As the mother of an only child (and with no plans at all to have any more children), I’ve had my fair share of judgement from others. I’ve been told I’m selfish, that I’ll live to regret this decision, that my child will grow up lonely, that he’ll end up resenting me and his father for not giving him any siblings, that he’ll feel burdened when it comes time to care for us in old age. The list goes on and on. I’ve heard variations on these remarks from family, people I know well, and complete strangers.
Trust me, this wasn’t a decision we came to lightly and it’s one that is constantly on my mind. In fact – shameless self promotional plug – my essay in my upcoming anthology about the myth of the “good mother” deals specifically with this topic and is titled “Yes. I Am That Selfish.” So to read about a book that thoughtfully takes on the notion of having one child — and debunks many of the myths commonly associated with it — felt a bit liberating. Keep reading »
My father didn’t walk me down the aisle on my wedding day, but he did help me up some very steep stairs. That’s not a metaphor for the next iteration of my life as a married lady: there were actual stairs, my high heels were ridiculous, and I didn’t want to fall over as I climbed to greet my very-soon-to-be husband on the stage where he was waiting for me.
I love that moment. I’d never envisioned being “given away” by my dad. I always loved the idea of walking solo, down the aisle, toward my future. But at the end of the “aisle” — a treacherous brick walkway — at our venue, was a set of precarious stairs. When I reached them, I put one foot on a step and reached with my left hand toward my dad, who helped me balance before taking my place in front of Patrick.
In both the figurative, and the most literal, sense, my dad helped me arrive on that stage, standing with the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. I was legitimately nervous I might fall down, but I also wanted that moment of connection with my dad during the ceremony, as a nod to what he and my mom and our family mean to me.
My dad? He was just legitimately nervous. Keep reading »
I’ve written before about why my dad is awesome, but looking back at my childhood, he definitely wasn’t the only father figure in my life. Being the imaginative weirdo that I was, most of my alternate dads were completely and totally fictional, but that didn’t make them any less integral to my emotional development. It was actually pretty hard to pare down this list, but here are 7 fictional characters — from a Jedi Master to a clumsy handyman — who were my imaginary dads, and taught me a lot about life in their own unique ways… Keep reading »
Choosing a baby name may be one of the hardest things a parent has to do. I’d say it’s harder than potty training — which has become my nemesis right now. Giving your kid a name, whatever name it is, is the one single word your kid is going to hear for the rest of their life. It’s a BIG deal. It also says a whole lot about you as a parent. It even reveals your political leanings.
Conservatives tend to choose a certain kind of name, and liberals prefer names with a certain kind of sound. Before I reveal, let’s take guesses. Let’s think about the kid names Leo and Kevin. If you had to choose who belongs to the liberal parent and who belongs to the conservative parent, what would you guess? Read more on The Stir…
In June 1961, after applying to Harvard’s graduate program in city planning, Phyllis Richman received a letter from Harvard asking her exactly how she planned on having a career and a family.
You see, Phyllis’s admission seemed like a waste of time to the admissions office. William A. Doeble, a professor in the department to which she had applied, wanted to make sure that she really wanted to put all of the time and money into an education that they felt she may never use when she was already so busy being a wife.
In his letter to Richman, Doeble wrote:
“[F]or your benefit, and to aid us in coming to a final decision, could you kindly write us a page or two at your earliest convenience indicating specifically how you might plan to combine a professional life in city planning with your responsibilities to your husband and a possible future family?” Keep reading »