Love

She asked if she could stay with me. The thing is, I don’t want to make her feel uncomfortable. I suggested that I could come visit her for the weekend, but she still wants to come here. Of course, I wouldn’t object to sharing a bed with her, but something keeps giving me pause.

Suicidality is a strange thing. Sometimes you think you’ve shaken it off, but it’s actually still there, quietly brewing under the surface until something triggers it.

As moms and dads, we probably don’t talk directly about rape to kids, at least not until they’re older. But we’re still sending messages about sex and consent all the time. Because of that, we need to make sure we’re not teaching them some very dangerous lessons, even if just by accident.

Now that I’ve turned 30 (and wear caftans) I’m done reading vapid click-bait offering prosaic advice. This is not one of those articles.

Engagements being the universally stressful occasions that they are, what this has meant is that I’m constantly pushing my fiancé to make wedding-related decisions, and he is constantly having to ask me (nicely and less-nicely) to give it a rest. It all came to a head this past weekend.

My son is, without a doubt, the greatest thing that has ever happened to me. He’s also taught me invaluable lessons about myself that I could have never anticipated.

There’s a big difference between talking and communicating. One exists to relay messages, ideas, and feelings: the building blocks of being a person. The other exists to fill time. I’m by no means here to tell people how to approach their relationships — I just don’t want people to feel pressured to fill silences with noise out of the fear their partners won’t think they care.

I’m in my early 20s and he’s in his 40s. He’s my 6-year-old brother’s best friend’s father. He’s old enough to be my dad too, actually. He’s got four kids — all with different moms (one who is my age).