Why Blog?


The first thing I was warned about when I signed with an agent was not to let my blog go dead.

“Oh, I won’t,” I said.

Famous last words.

I suppose you could blame being in the throws of book revision. I suppose you could blame children. Or paid work, blame the paid work, especially.

Because I don’t get paid for this blog right here. I used to earn money with ads and some sponsored posts. But I quit that when I realized that it compromised what I wanted to say. I felt bad getting things in the mail and having to tell the PR people that I couldn’t review them because never in a million years would I buy my children $4/pouch yogurt, or $50 T-shirts for babies (who will crap on them!) because we aren’t freaking Beyonce over here. And neither are you and what the hell? How can I write a post that’s all, “My life is great now that my baby wears clothes worth more than my life!”?

One day, I got so frustrated, I just took the ads down. I  let PR people know that I was out of the game, unless they were Coke-a-Cola, or Cheetos (which will never happen, but not because I don’t consume enough of their products, amirite?), I’m done with WRITING A BLOG FOR PROFIT (and I have been for over a year now). And I like that.

There have been a lot of bloggers quitting this year. Big bloggers. Bloggers who made the genre. They are done. They blame the caustic comments and the heavy pressure of putting their lives on display. In the game of click-throughs its easy to lose. Because we all know the formula something racy+list+mom judgement=click gold. Better yet if you can make a passive-aggressively condescending letter out of it. “Dear bitchmom I hate but I’m going to pretend not to hate because I’m a bigger person” is my favorite genre of post. Right next to, “Dear woman I observed doing something normal but inspired me to live more freely and better than you.”

So many blogs and blog style sites I love have fallen victim to and gotten lost in these tropes. Or even lost themselves to a kind of self-parody. Like style aping style. It’s like how my imitation of my mom is more my mom than my actual mom. I’m trying to avoid that.

I have half a mind to start my own mom site, something that is more than “Good Family Meals That Cost A Million Dollars And Have Kale Because It’s On Trend!” And product round ups and baby name round ups with a dash of, “ENJOY EVERY MOMENT BECAUSE ONE DAY YOUR KIDS WILL LEAVE AND YOU’LL HAVE TO ACTUALLY LOOK AT YOUR HUSBAND OMG SAVE US!” Something that is funny and complicated that speaks to the experience of motherhood without being drowned in it. Something that allows women to be who they are as mothers but also the other manifestations of themselves–ghost hunters, witch lovers, historians and whiskey drinkers. But I don’t have the money. That’s really the only thing stopping me.

Plus Dave tells me the internet will end one day after China blows it up.

I have this idea that one day in the far future, I’ll be visited in the old folks home by my great-grandchildren and I’ll be all, “Did granny ever tell you what and internet is?” And they’ll put down their post-apocalyptic hatchets and bonnets and sit still while I tell them of that one time on the Huffington Post when I went viral.

They probably won’t care. And it won’t happen (because they won’t visit, I know them). Nothing is over. Life happens in cycles. It’s boom it’s bust. But people who love writing, who can’t stop writing will always write. Blogging is a genre now, no more, no less. It has its absurdities and its purities. I love it for what it is, a place for me to place things that I cannot place elsewhere. It’s the sum of thoughts and jokes and moments that I want to share.

Last year, I bought two journals to write down memories for my children. The things I won’t share here. Things that might be embarrassing or too intimate to reveal. Or at least, too intimate for me to make that decision to reveal. I’ve been filling them up. I love them. That too is a different genre and a different mindset.

I’ve always said as my children grow older and their stories grow separate from me that I will have to find new ways to talk about them and me, ways that walk a line of respect and love, but also honor the intricacies of our lies. I’m not sure how to find this place. So, I find myself in a time of listening, to my children, to other writers, to ideas and thoughts and voices. And I think of what I want to say here. What do you want to hear here. And I almost feel flummoxed by possibility.

But maybe I hit on it before. Maybe that’s just what I do, keep writing things here that honor motherhood and all the other iterations of self–ghost hunters, witch lovers, historians and whiskey drinkers.

One time, after something I wrote got a lot of attention, someone asked me why I wrote it on my blog. “Because,” I said, “it’s the place I say things that no one will pay me to say.” She was confused and I realized that she wanted me to say that I was inspired by something or another. But I wasn’t really. I had just been wanting to say it for a long time and I kept pitching the essay but no one bought it, so I pooped it out on this blog. Voila.

But I keep going back to that thing I said to her. This is the place I say the things I really want to.

I’ve tried to quit blogging before. Once when I was 20 and my blog had become a little too big for me to handle. I was getting creepy emails and comments that I couldn’t handle at the time, so I shut it down.

I started again a few years later, when I was unemployed and bored. I kept it anonymous because I thought that’s what truly serious people did–they hid themselves. But I gave up that ruse because it was unnecessary cloak and dagger. Say what you need to say, don’t hide it.

Then, I came here. I think I’ll stay here. Even if it takes fits and starts. Even if I pause now and again to do work that actually pays, because, again, I’m not Beyonce, I need the money.

But here, you aren’t money, you aren’t clicks, here we are all just people, eating Cheetos, talking about life in a place where no one pays us to say it.

Fancy Dancer

me and ellis

I won’t do this ever again. I promise. But I originally wrote this for my Tiny Letter newsletter because apparently it’s all early aughts again. Anyway, it’s where I’m compiling links and updates to all my writing, interesting things on the internet, short thoughts and .gifs. I’ve titled it Eff, because it is themed with F words. ALL OF THEM. This one was titled “Fancy.” If that sounds fun, you can sign up here. You also view view the archives here.


My daughter had her first recital on Sunday. She is four. She has been begging for dance lessons since she turned two. What happened was, I made the mistake of reading her Angelina Ballerina books and she looked at me with wide eyes, “You mean, I can take a dance class?”

I never set out to have a fancy daughter. We didn’t find out her sex before she was born. And all my in-laws told me that LENZES HAVE BOYS. So, I mostly expected a boy. And then, here she came–all plump, blue eyes, blonde hair–this happy little baby girl. I was immediately inundated with bows and tutus. I sent most of them back. I returned them and exchanged them for blues, purples, neutrals, ironic onesies, boys clothes, and whiskey (you can buy liquor at Target in Iowa, be jealous). I gave concessions to grandmas on holidays, but for the most part, I did my best to keep her unfancy. Hell, I even gave her a boy’s name. The male name Emily Bronte published under, when she couldn’t find acceptance as a woman writer.

I did this for so many reasons. I am one of five girls and like so many girls, I’ve never felt at home in the world of “girl.” I was that girl, at 16, telling all my friends that girls are terrible for their “drama.” Saying that I “like boys better.” And I’ve learned a lot since then about internalizing sexism and privileging what is stereotypically “male.” But, I was determined not to ruin her. So, we had no princess things in the house. No books. No movies. No TV shows. Nothing.

But one day, right after she turned two, my daughter came down the stairs draped in my scarves and declared herself, “Princess Ellis.” I still don’t know where she got that. But from that day on, my life has been a cavalcade of tutus and dance and tiaras and princesses and fancy.

I suppose, I’m the mom, I had a choice whether to “let” her do that or not. But if I’ve learned one thing about femininity and feminism and well, womanhood, in the past 32 years is that no one has the right to define your experience as a woman. If this is what what my daughter wants, I will always give her other options, but this is what she can have. I refuse to demean pink, or tutus, or ruffles, or all the ways she is fancy just because I don’t like them. It’s taken me years to define what it means to be a woman on my own terms. I want better for her. I want her to define herself on her own terms, even if that means a tiara.

So, when she was old enough, I signed her up for dance. There is so much about being a dance mom that I hate. The ruffles. The hair. The “Well, everyone else is getting a recital shirt, so you should get one for Ellis too!” Or the “We need deep pink lipstick, that is light pink!” That kind of garbage. But I love being Ellis’ mom. So, going to this recital, seeing her on stage, knowing that it was all her, well, I damn near cried. She wanted this. She was loving this. Her wide eyes when she came out for the final bow. Her huge smile as she tromped around on the stage. Her little happy tears when I gave her flowers. “For me? Fancy roses of my own?!” I am so proud of her and of the little woman that she is becoming. And she is doing it all on her own terms.

Babies begin their lives joined with their mothers. The sleep. The feeding. It’s hard to know where you begin and where your baby ends. It’s this big muddle of dependency that suffocates and enrages and buttresses. And we all have these ideas for who our kids should and ought to be. But watching her today, I realized that she is me and she isn’t. She’s so wholly mine and so entirely her own. And whatever she loves, I will love. Whatever she needs to be the person she needs to be–whether it be a sex change or a tutu or a lifetime of writing books about how awful I am–I’m there for her. Where a mother sees a wall a daughter sees a window. We may fight. We may argue. But I hope she always breaks my walls to show me the beauty beyond.

I Am Not A Mom First, I Am Not A Wife First


The questions began my junior year of college: “When are you going to get married?”

First it was my mother. I had been dating Dave, my high school friend since sophomore year of college. I thought the question was innocent enough. We had been dating for a while. But soon everyone was asking. His grandma said in the bold, huffy way that only 78 year old women can: “Why aren’t you married yet?”

“We’re in college!” I’d say. People always shrugged. Like it wasn’t a good enough reason, but no one wanted to press it further. We got married at 22. But that didn’t satisfy them. The week of the wedding, people started asking when we planned to have kids. A cousin asked about our plans for procreating while I primped for pictures before the wedding.

“Good lord,” I said. “Let me get through the wedding first.”

But they persisted. Kids? Kids? When will you have kids? I joked with my mom that for every time she asked me, I’d add five more years onto our timeline. If I held true to that threat, I would have been 95, by the time I tried to conceive.  And it wasn’t just family pestering us. Couples we met. Friends. People in church during greeting time, who looked around us as if we were missing something. Strangers I talked to in the passport line in the post office. It was the second question they asked me, right after, “What does your husband do?”

We had been married five years, when we decided to have a child. I thought the questions would end there, but they didn’t.

Before I even had my daughter hoovered from my heavily sedated vagina with one of those little hospital vacuums, the pressure was on for a second. I was six months pregnant when a woman in the Target check-out line asked me if I planned on having another.

“Good lord,” I said. “Let me have this one first.”

I had done everything “right” according to the laws of woman and it still wasn’t enough.

I have two children now and I am still pressured for a third. Although, the questions are more infrequent. As one family member put it, “You have one of sex, if you have more that’s just greedy.”  But it’s not over, not by a long shot. While all people may not eagerly anticipate the next product of my uterus, there are other expectations. Did I breastfeed? Did I have a med-free birth? Did I vaccinate? Will I homeschool? And it’s not just family. Every day, I read a new study that holds forth on some way I have failed—I placed my children too close together. I quit work to be with them. I feed them too much pizza.

And there is no end in sight. When they are older, conversations will fill with expectations of my children, laid before my feet. I am the mother after all. College? Do they have children? Are they married? How many grandchildren? And on. The gauntlet of what is required of me will never end.

In the wake of the publication of Meghan Daum’s “Selfish, Shallow, & Self-Absorbed” and Kate Bolick’s “Spinster,” there has been a new push to untangle the identities of women from their relationships—mother, wife and otherwise. Each book, expertly argues that marriage and childrearing may not be for everyone and they certainly shouldn’t be a prerequisite for a happy life.  I agree. And I laud these conversations, because every effort to free a women from being defined by her choices helps us all. In an article for Salon, Michele Filgate writes, “We live in a society where people are judged for everything, but especially parenting. My friends who are moms are just as criticized, if not more so, than the childless ones. Nothing is ever good enough. So why do we care what other people think?”

Good question. Recently, an article in the New York Times examined the lives of wealthy women on the Upper East Side. Women who are smart, well-educated and throw their lives into mothering like it’s their profession and they receive compensation accordingly. And while it may seem extreme, it’s actually not. I’ve recently been rereading Quiverfull, about a movement in conservative churches for women to embrace motherhood. It’s an older book, but the movement is still strong. And it’s amazing how similar it is to the wealthy women of the Upper East Side–women allowing themselves and their identity to be subsumed by the products of their ovaries.

And for those of us somewhere in the middle, we are not exempt either. We drown ourselves in Pinterest and complain about Elf on the Shelf. Heated discussions over whether we are a mom or a wife first, shuttle about on Facebook pages and Twitter. And it all misses the point entirely–we are not moms first, we are not wives first, we are not single career women first. First and foremost, we are ourselves.

From birth to death, a woman’s life exists in a tangle of expectations. The more a woman conforms to these expectations, the more they increase. Cloth diaper. Make baby food. Don’t let your daughter play with princesses. How dare you let your son play with princesses? It’s so hard to extricate yourself from the manifest destiny that society claims over your body and choices.

Whatever we do, it isn’t enough. So, why do we allow it to define us and make it encompass our human experience? Every time someone fights to wrest free the definition of woman from her relationships, gives us all a little more space to be who we need to be.

Where Violence Begins

This was originally printed in the Cedar Rapids Gazette as part of my Pants-Free Parenting Column. I wasn’t going to put it on here, it seemed to be too local. But then, I read this article about the part women play in domestic violence and I thought, HELL NO. That is garbage. So, I’m putting it up here. I am also including some great commentary from another mother, writer and abuse survivor.

We were face-timing with a family member when my son pulled my daughter’s hair.

I could see him in the screen. Both children were in my lap and he was staring right at her hair, his little hand slowly reaching out as if compelled by a force far beyond his control. That force no doubt was a mixture of curiosity and the call of nature that compels all little brothers to torment their sisters.

I pulled him away, but it was too late. My daughter was screaming.

“Don’t pull hair, buddy,” I said gently. He did it again. This time, he was fast. My daughter screamed louder. “Brother, you are wrecking me!”

“Well,” my family member said over the iPad, “maybe you should move so he won’t pull your hair.”

I picked up my toddler son and put him on the ground, then turned to face the screen. “No, don’t blame the victim.”

“She should move, though.”

Suddenly, this wasn’t about brothers and sisters, fighting over lap real estate, curiosity or learning. This was about not blaming my daughter for her brother’s violence. And I knew my daughter was watching, so I stood my ground.

“No, she has a right not to be attacked,” I said. My family member sighed and changed the topic. I comforted both children, but I was angry.

A few days later, I related a story to a friend about my son hitting his sister with a pool noodle and my daughter just lying on the floor sobbing. “That’s just boys,” my friend said. She likes to tell me what boys are and what they aren’t, because she has two sons herself. She thinks I need to know. “But your daughter, she should have moved,” my friend added.

“No,” I said for the second time that week, “she has a right not to be attacked.”

The language we use when we talk about children reveals more about our society than we’d like to admit. I see parents laugh off their sons’ violence as “just boys” and harshly punish their daughters when they do the same. A parent who witnessed my daughter sitting still while her brother pummeled her with a pillow joked to me that my 4-year-old daughter has “battered wife syndrome.”

“Have you ever told her to just hit back?” he asked.

“How does that help?” I asked. “How does making his violence her responsibility help?”

These comments anger me because they hit close. Someone near to me has been in an abusive relationship for a long time. The responses she receives to her partner’s violence — emotional, verbal and physical — is to ask her why she doesn’t leave.

Currently in the county where I live, Linn County, there have been four domestic homicides. Each has involved men attacking and killing women. Husbands, boyfriends and exes, each man violently turning on a woman. Each time we ask, why didn’t she leave? Why didn’t she get away?

The real question should be, why wasn’t he stopped?

This is ostensibly a parenting blog, to be sure. But parenting issues are human issues. The ways in which we allow violence in our communities begins when children are small. We permit boys to be boys. Yet, we teach girls to restrain themselves. We allow men to be aggressive, while simultaneously blaming women for not leaving, moving and running away. We teach women from an early age that a man’s actions are her responsibility.

Think I’m wrong? Go talk to women in abusive situations. I have. They each take on the blame for their partner’s violence. “I made him mad,” they’ll say. “I shouldn’t have done that,” they’ll say. Domestic violence programs, rape programs, they all focus on women — on women staying safe, protecting themselves. But where in all of that do we teach men not to be violent? Not to hit? Not to use their fists when they lash out?

We don’t. In fact, it’s common to hear parents privilege the violence of men. “I like how boys just fight it out,” one mother told me. “It’s better than the way girls fight.”

I don’t believe my toddler son is a violent offender. He is just a baby, learning limits and boundaries. But I do know that how I treat his violence now will set a tone for the rest of his life. And I know my daughter is watching. I am not trying to deny the differences in my children. Children are different. But the standards of behavior are the same.

Surely, there is room for lessons on self-defense. Those will come later, when we face violence that is out of our control. But right now, I choose to teach my children that everyone has a right not to be attacked and no one should live life on the defensive.

9 Questions for My Mother


My friend Claire Zulkey put an interview with her mom over on her blog. I thought it was sweet and interesting and I figured my mom might be up for it. So, I emailed her these questions. She emailed me back, but it turned out she was having my sister type for her (my mom’s nails frequently prevent her from typing because they are fancy), so the answers where like, “You were adopted! I NEVER LOVED YOU!” So, she made me call her. These are transcribed answers. Many of the answers were longer, but then she’d tell me I couldn’t put in like the last 20 sentences. (“Elizabeth, don’t you put in there that I said that about your sister!”) So, it got complicated.

It’s cliche, but having children has helped me understand my mother more. Having my own anxiety has helped me understand hers. Talking about my children with her has helped me see so much of what she saw and dealt with in us. Sometimes it feels like grace. Sometimes it feels like karma, but mostly I think it’s a form of redemption for everyone. She is a great woman my mother. The mother of eight. And whatever else I am, I am one of the reasons she went crazy. So, that’s on me.

1. What’s the one thing you would have done differently as a mom?

I wish I would had known how anxious I was and I wish I would have known about the drugs I could have taken. Anxiety made me crazy.

2. Why did you choose to be with my father?

He was funny, he made me laugh a lot and he had ambition.

3. In what ways do you think I’m like you? And not like you?

This one is hard, because you can see physical characteristics. Physically we are a lot alike. But your sense of humor and your intelligence, those like your dad. ( I am a smart woman, but you are smart in a different way.) And we are both creative, but in different ways. We both like to cook but you are better than me now, I would say. We both like to read. But you have a real logical mind. You could have made a really good lawyer.

Me: But who needs more of those, right?

Mom: Isn’t it like writing?

Me: Fair enough point.

4. Which one of us kids did you like the best?

That’s the worst question. I refuse to answer. There are things I like and don’t like about each of you. I mean, think about your brother Caleb. He is so funny, right? But isn’t in horrible how manipulative he is? I mean he can always get you girls to do anything for him. Elizabeth, don’t put that in there.

5. Is there anything you have always wanted to tell me but never have?


6. Do you think it’s easier or harder to be a mother now than when you were raising our family?

Much harder. Economically it’s not as easy to be at home with your kids. There are a lot more pressures–emotional pressures. Pressures to produce. You can’t just be a mom, you have to be something else. Working with kids is harder now too. Kids have so many more problems. And maybe we had them then too but weren’t aware. But it is harder.

7. Is there anything you regret not having asked your parents?

I regret not asking my mom about her past, I suspect it was difficult. It’s something that I wish I would have asked about, but then, I know I couldn’t have asked. It was a different time.

8. What’s the best thing I can do for you right now?

Make me a coconut cake and bring me my grand kids. No. Although, I appreciate those things, I just appreciate being your mom. I like talking to you and being your mom and reading your stuff, even though it hurts sometimes. I just enjoy you and being with you. I wish we lived closer. I miss being near all my kids.

9. When did you realize you were no longer a child?

When your dad and I were in California and right before I had Jessica (my oldest sister). We had no support system and family was so far away and we were going to have a kid and I realized I had to do this on my own.

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