I Think Of Myself As A Realistic

[on Home Births:] In A House Where There Had Been Three People, There Were Now Four, Although No One Had Come In The Door.

Nothing Like Being Visible, Publishing One's Work, And Speaking Openly About One's Life, To Disabuse The World Of The Illusion Of One's Perfection And Purity.

You Lay Your Hand Against His Skin And Just Rib His Back. Blow Into His Ear. Press That Baby Up Against Your Own Skin And Walk Outside With Him, Where The Night Air Will Sourround Him, And Moonlight Fall On His Face. Whistle, Maybe. Dance. Hum. Pray. (how To Calm A Crying Baby)

I Think Of Myself As A Realistic Writer, Not A Creator Of Soap Opera Or Melodrama.

I Have No Doubt That Over The Years My Children Will Find Plenty Of Things About Me To Criticize. But Something Tells Me That Twenty Years From Now Not One Of Them Will Sit On Some Therapist's Couch Complaining Because Their Mother Didn't Spend Enough Time Vacuuming Up Glitter.