Anatomy of a Helicopter

If I had to use one word to describe my parenting style it would be “feral.” For when it comes to protecting my children, I am as untamed as they come, my ferocity knowing no boundaries or rules. My motherly powers have shown both in the strength of my pen and my voice, as well as in the kind of miraculous adrenaline-fueled superpowers one might hear about on the news, like the time I literally th...

She thought she was being so smart, so stylish, packing us for this trip to New York City. It’s a biggie. A change of life, a change of pace, a new normal. A turning point. Big moments and turning points call for voluminous taffeta, silk shirts, layers of statement jewelry and a few sets of shoulder pads for good measure. She is a performer at heart and perhaps having the right costume on will con...

When my son was a little boy he loved to put things in his pockets. The smaller the better. Sometimes he would share his treasures. Sometimes he would reveal them with a soft voice and a trusting lean, his big brown eyes widening as he opened his chubby hand to reveal something deep inside his palm. But most of the time, the treasure had long been his secret, tucked away to run his tiny fingers ov...

I wait for the bus while standing in front of the chicken rice shop on River Valley Road. The smell is unavoidable, but I work hard to avert my eyes from the pallid poultry hung by their feet in a crowded row in the window behind me. The bumpy, flaccid chicken skin gleaming with slime. How this is considered gourmet, I will never understand. But then again there’s a lot I’ll never understand about...

Under a dark sky, with the sun still asleep, I cradle my weary body into the hug of my plush cushioned chair with my newborn son in my arms. As he nurses, I just stare down as his chest rises and falls with the miracle of breath. At just a few weeks old he seems to know my heart, and his tiny fingers softly press into my waist. A hug. Always a kid to say thank you at exactly the moment it will mel...

Lately, opening my Instagram is like being trapped in a funhouse mirror maze nightmare of my own creation. Everywhere I turn, a distorted image of myself leers back at me, every uninvited ad a self-perception so amplified it stings. I am self aware and savvy enough to understand that I have bartered away my consumer data in exchange for an endless stream of pictures of my high school friends’ chil...

The women in my family all have the same laugh – or cackle, depending on your point of view, or tolerance for joy. I have an infinite tolerance for joy. It starts like a spark. Catches on like wildfire. One by one, we ignite in a noisy cacophony. When I was a kid, my grandma was usually the one who started it. The laugh would begin in her belly and then explode into to a shriek. It would roll acro...

Welcome to Anatomy of a Helicopter. I’m here for the crazy. I’m here for the wild ideas and huge dreams. I’m here for the loud, clunky, complicated things that shouldn’t fly — let alone land — and somehow are our heroes of the day. I’m here for the moments that remind us that the beauty lies in the chaos. Come fly with me. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subs...

I’ve been in the top 1% of Yo-Yo Ma listeners worldwide on Spotify for four years in a row. Like any good Gen Xer, I’ve long lusted for Eddie Vedder. And in my middle age, I developed a deep crush on John Mayer the very moment I heard him croon the first half of Terrapin Station with Dead & Co. But Eddie and John’s melodic sensuality are no match for the aching bend of the cello strings, and Yo-Yo...

“I think there should be a cocktail bar in here,” the frazzled woman sitting in the opposite chair in the mammogram waiting room declared as she fiddled with the frayed ties of her thin radiology gown. It was 9:43 a.m. on a Thursday. “I don’t drink,” she quickly tried to assure me. “But there’s a time for everything.” I do drink. Though not like I used to (hello, night sweats!), and typically not...

My dear beautiful man once told me that a woman of my stature deserves a coffee maker. I was barely making ends meet. Newly divorced, determined to keep my kids and I in our house, balancing my finances through an ongoing stream of creative math, but somehow making it all land in a place of joy, renewal and love. Optimism couldn’t plug the silver-dollar-sized hole and subsequent leak in my basemen...

There is a rooster weathervane atop the house next door. Its arrow points west, I believe, but I can’t see the letters clearly with my reading glasses on. I never noticed the rooster before, such a cliched trinket atop our otherwise carefully cultivated bubble because the main window in my meditation station, where I write most mornings, looked out onto a plum tree which bloomed delicate white flo...