I'm a C+ Mom Who Makes A+ Milk

by Nora McInerny


My to-do list was never-ending. Pumping was something I could finish.

 

I have a secret fantasy to tell you about. I've always been kind of embarrassed about it, but I've found it's shared by so many of my white-collar friends, whose hands have the smooth texture of people for whom a hard day of work means clicking, double-clicking, and a couple thousand strikes of the keyboard before eating a sad desk lunch, their faces two inches from the monitor.

It started, for me, as soon as my career did. There I was, in my fully synthetic Business Casual apparel from Express, riding a train to an office where after 6 months I still wasn't sure what the company actually did. On the way, I'd gaze longingly at delivery men unloading pallets of soda. I'd find myself jealous of construction workers, slapping up scaffolding like the Dozers in Fraggle Rock.

Read more at Elle.com


Why You Need to Start a Sexting Group Chat With Your Best Friends TODAY

by Nora McInerny


Sexting isn't about the male gaze. It's about admiring yourself and helping the people you love do the same.

I don't know when I learned to hate my body, just that — unlike any foreign language class I ever took — it's been really difficult to forget. Ask me to speak Spanish after six years of education, and I will say, "Como estas? Corbata, biblioteca, gracias, pantalones cortos?" Which Google Translate will tell you means, "How are you? Neck tie, library, thank you, shorts." But if you asked me about my body, I could always rattle of 10 or 20 ways it was not quite OK.

Read more at Cosmopolitan.com


Death, Grief and Internet Comments

by Nora McInerny


You would think that having your beloved husband die in your arms would give you a deeper understanding of the world, and you’d be right, it does. I swear to everything that the moment he didn’t breathe in again, I saw the universe in its entirety, and my place in it.

You may also think that this deeper understanding of the world would stick with you always, like a Harry Potter-esque Cloak of Tranquility, something you could wear to protect you from being eaten alive by nothing, to protect you from your own brain and its obsession with trivialities.

NOPE.

Read more at Headspace Blog


Kind, True, Necessary

by Nora McInerny


What other people say about you is none of your business.

I wish that was my advice, but really, I got it from a friend in college who got it from a Jesuit priest who probably got it from the Pope, who, if I had to guess where this game of telephone is going, got it right from God herself.

Like flossing and eating well, that is easier said than done.

And it’s way easier if you don’t have the Internet.

Read more at Huffington Post


You Do Not Have to Be Good

by Nora McInerny


You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.

— Mary Oliver, Wild Geese

I’m starting with poetry to give you the impression that I am deep and intellectual. You caught me!

One night, my toddler son took a header off the couch. I was standing in the kitchen licking the wooden spoon after stirring his Annie’s Mac & Trees (culinary brag). He was standing on the couch, which is not okay, because couches are for our butts.

Read more at Huffington Post


To all the homes I loved before

by Nora McInerny


I moved from the home I shared with my husband in May.

He told me it was time to move on, that the house had served its purpose and would be better off as someone else’s home.

He died in November, but look, when a former co-worker tells you she has some messages from your dead husband? You go and sit on her sofa and you listen. Because guess what? He could have left you information on where he buried his treasure! Or, in my case, he might just have some good life advice. He always did.

Read more at StarTribune.com


I'm a Young Widowed Mom, and I Make People Uncomfortable

by Nora McInerny


But that's all right with me.

 

A funny thing happens when your husband dies.

Not really, I just like the idea of starting something heavy with a lighthearted joke. Anyway, if you missed that opening line, my husband died. Which makes me a widow, and makes our child 50 percent orphan.

Aaron and I were married for three years, and even though that is about 47 years too short to get a really great party thrown by our grandkids in a church basement, we completely nailed our vows. Sickness? He was diagnosed with brain cancer before our wedding! Health? Um, I was healthy? He had brain cancer. 'Til death parts us? He died in my arms.

Read more at Elle.com


Why I tell everyone to leave Minneapolis

by Nora McInerny


Dreaming of Portland? Or San Francisco? Or New York? Go.

My father always said that the only way he was leaving this city was feet first.

It was his way of letting us know that, should he get old and decrepit, he wasn’t getting shipped off to an assisted living facility in a second-ring suburb. No siree.

Aside from winters in Palm Springs, he wasn’t moving anywhere. He was going to die in the city he was born in, just a few miles from where his parents raised him in south Minneapolis.

Read more at Star Tribune 


My Opinion Doesn’t Justify Your Rape Threats

by Nora McInerny


Let me preface this by saying: the world and the Internet can be wonderful and terrible, and sometimes it’s easier to just pretend the garbage people don’t exist in either place, but they do.

They do, and sometimes they drop some flaming dog shit on your doorstep and you realize, alright, let’s do this.

A few weeks ago I had an incredibly condescending and offensive experience wherein a very drunk man approached me to tell me I should smile.

Read more at Huffington Post


Smile, you bitch: Being a woman in 2015

by Nora McInerny


Let me preface this by saying: the world and the internet can be wonderful and terrible, and sometimes it’s easier to just pretend the garbage people don’t exist in either place, but they do. They do, and sometimes they drop some flaming dog shit on your doorstep and you realize, alright, let’s do this.

A few weeks ago I had an incredibly condescending and offensive experience wherein a very drunk man approached me to tell me I should smile.

Read more at Medium 


The heartbreak of almost: a modern miscarriage story

by Nora McInerny


I know what I’m seeing before she tells me.

I knew when the midwife excused herself from the examination room, claiming not to be an ultrasound expert. I knew when the ultrasound tech looked at the screen and recommended we move to her room, where the machinery is more advanced. I knew when I saw her face, and the tiny white figure hanging motionless on the monitor.

I knew the night before, even before Googling, that no blood is good blood when you’re pregnant.

My father once described the ultrasound photos I provided of Ralph as “an invasion of a baby’s privacy.” Babies dance along with the ultrasound machine, like a little alien trying to avoid detection, like a little white whale darting around your uterus hiding from Captain Ahab, like a little marionette.

But not this baby.

Read more on Medium 


It Happened to Me: My Boyfriend Got Brain Cancer

by Nora McInerny


This isn't a cancer story, it's a love story.

All of it. The whole thing. Even the part where cancer appears like an unexpected plot twist or a diabolical villain.

Our love story is not unique or important, except in the way that every love story is: entirely unoriginal and entirely personal all at once. We’re not the first people who fell in love, or the last, but we did and it is fucking awesome. 

Read more at xoxo Jane