Donald and I were wed in a garden. There were wood chairs and a band playing Louis Armstrong and an unfathomable heat.  There were black tuxedoes and green vests and pink dresses.  There was my father, laying down wood planks to →MORE...

Weekends are pretty low-key events in the Christensen household.  We wake up early and make stinky baby jokes.  We eat a late, leisurely breakfast and talk about what to do with our day.  We have dinner with family and build memories →MORE...

Shortly before I gave birth to Charlotte, my husband and I ran across a few of my old journals.  They were tucked away in a box in the guest room, those once-loved old things, and they were covered in dust and →MORE...

If I had read the fine print when I signed up to become a parent, I would have found that motherhood means allowing for a squadron of sex police to move into my home.  Because that’s what a baby is, really.  →MORE...

Donald just keeps getting sexier.  Sexier and sexier and sexier.  And while people told me this would happen, told me that I would want to rip his clothes off and ravage him because he made gorilla noises at our baby, I →MORE...