How quaint it was, just a few weeks ago, when I wrote about Alan Alda's storytelling advice.
How quaint when just yesterday I was working on a book about my experiences growing up as an artist and a woman in a culture that celebrates neither.
Because today I am militarized.
I realized: In clinging to my connection with my daughter, I am trying to control it, and, in a way, to control her. And I can't. And I don't want to.
I do not mean to suggest it's all rainbows and cupcakes. Of course there are times when it is grueling and heartbreaking and dull. But I am a better person for being her mother.
I met Betsy when she was eight months pregnant and teaching an improv class I was taking at the Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre in NYC...
Battling it out with that old demon, Perfectionism, as it rears its ugly head in my relationship with my daughter.
I was so moved by the artist's open letter earlier today about why she fears motherhood as an artist that I write my own open letter in response.
How quickly a toddler's bedtime breakdown sends me into a death spiral of angst.
Tonight, as water gushed out of the ceiling of my parents' kitchen and living room, I hit my breaking point.
On wanting room for angst on a rainy Sunday but needing to pull it together and parent instead.
Calling all artist-moms! Share a link to art that you've made since becoming a mother for a chance to win a copy of my book, Feeling My Way: Finding Motherhood Without Losing Myself. Get the details here.