Becoming a parent is like learning to sight read a new piece of music. You've learned the principles of playing the instrument; you technically know what the notes and marks on the page mean. But you haven't heard it before, so you're unsure how it is supposed to sound.

That rustic, restless beauty seems to be the thing that pulls my dream self back to Humboldt. It's a recurring dream where my husband and I plan to relocate there from Oregon.

Last year I turned forty-two, and it was the first time my eye doctor mentioned the probability of bifocals. He said I'd likely need them within the next five years. I said okay, sure; it didn't quite seem real. Bifocals are only worn by kindly grandparents and cobblers.

In the early months, I was never the one doing the waking. My baby had no concept of sleeping through the night or that slumber was a desirable thing that Mommy wanted more of. Mommy was just always there, ready with a bottle of formula or a fresh diaper.

Who am I to be writing?

Immigration and Customs Enforcement officers may soon be outfitted with gloves that can deliver painful electric shocks that are intended to gain compliance from combative individuals.

Anytime I get a glimpse of something I'm doing inadequately as a parent, I worry that the proverbial ship has sailed—the ship that carries a precious thing that influences my son's ability to succeed in life.

People love to recirculate the iconic images that remain in the popular imagination as defining of that period; they pick out the most charismatic, easy-to-enjoy parts of an era ... It's like claiming to be a wildlife conservation activist because you feel sorry for the adorable polar bears.

I don't want to be truly sick, but I would happily submit to a doctor's orders for bed rest due to a mild condition like the vapors. The full cure would involve two days beneath the covers and a complete reprieve from my usual mental load.

"Good parenting is hard; bad parenting is easy." I read that on Instagram the other day, and unfortunately it stuck in my head. I'm sure that my husband and I take the easy way out by failing to implement obvious consequences, and letting him eat ice cream and watch Goat every night.

by Kristen Martin

Maybe there is something objectively dystopian about a town where you can draw a five-by-five-mile plot anywhere and record the same composition of snaky residential roads, stucco houses with open concept layouts, and a strip mall composed of the usual suspects.

Parents are supposed to be better at rising above it, setting an example for observant children who whine only because they haven't perfected better forms of expression. Unfortunately, setting a good example is only one of many imperatives that I juggle at any given time.

As an adult, I can still be jump-scared, but instead of acting frightened I just get aggravated. What an inconvenience to be reminded that I still have half a lizard brain, which interprets ordinary creatures as boogeymen when they come at me without warning.

"The Four Right Chords" by Kristen Martin — Across The Margin

I still think rampant consumerism is gross, and a scourge, but here I am with a new 2021 car in my driveway, having traded up from a 2020 version of a similar model. This probably wasn't a financially wise choice.

Prada, orzo, and the never-ending cold

Ferries and sailboats went about their business. Fish-and-chip shops beckoned with their smell. Happy tourists and families crowded the boardwalk, so many of them holding ice cream cones that I noticed one of the shops had a sign explicitly forbidding ice cream in the store.

I feel the sting of failure when I see glimpses of other families doing the wholesome stuff that, I’m convinced, leads to healthy, socially responsible children.

I know the bathroom is just around the corner. It should only take five minutes for me to dash in and dash out, especially if I lighten by load by leaving my bags on the train. I tell a fellow passeng...

Short attention spans, DTF, and neighborhood walks

I grew up in an era where shittiness and cracks in the system were much less evident ... I believed that things were set up in my favor and that stuff just worked.

Celebrity memoirs, espresso tonic, and Great Wolf Lodge

My mind is like a junk-science research lab where technicians stay busy pouring mixtures from one flask into another, never producing actual results.

Joni Mitchell, roast chicken, and cats in the yard

Alt: a panda bear is standing in a kitchen talking to a man in an apron, angrily smashing ingredients over the caption WE HAVE FOOD AT HOME

Mugs feel like a thing you should always buy secondhand unless you find one that's extra special. Like children's clothing, they are easily destroyed by their owners, and are consigned to thrift shops in bulk when someone finally decides to clean out that overcrowded cabinet.

Shipwrecks, lamb burgers, and dreams

"I'm your little magnet," my son said as he stuck himself to my body like static cling.

Alt: a close up of a woman 's face with a big, nervous smile

## Reading I took my son to the library to find Pokemon graphic novels, and then hurriedly picked out a couple books for myself to cut short my son's impatient tailgating along the shelves. I always zero in on New Nonfiction, but this time I thought I should have