“Tammy told us we have to be careful,” my 12-year-old announced at dinner last night. “There have been two attempted kidnappings around here. Of middle school girls.” I felt cold dread wash over my scalp. Kidnappings? In Oregon? Of middle school girls? One reason we live in a small town is because it feels safe. My husband and I tend…
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What Every Writer Needs to Know: Take-Away Lessons From ASJA 2012
Confession #1: I didn’t want to go to the American Society of Journalists and Authors conference this year. When the plane was two and a half hours delayed from Oregon and it looked like I would miss my connecting red-eye (I did), I called my aunt and cried. But I was speaking on a panel, “Photography Basics to Boost Your…
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Arrested Midwife Says She Won’t Deliver Babies in Indiana Anymore
(April 13, 2012)—Arrested midwife, Ireena Keeslar, 49, a certified professional midwife, or CPM, announced today that she will no longer attend home births in Indiana. In Indiana it is a felony for certified professional midwives, like Keeslar, to attend home births. “We have defined the delivery of babies as the practice of medicine,” said Representative Tim Brown, M.D., 56, an…
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Midwife Arrested in Indiana, Released on $10,000 Bail
When a car pulled up to her house a little after 10 a.m. on Saturday, March 31st, Ireena Keeslar was still in her pajamas. Ireena Keeslar and her husband, who keep the Sabbath from sundown on Friday to sundown on Saturday, were just finishing up a late breakfast. They weren’t expecting any visitors. They certainly weren’t expecting the police. But…
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The Problem With Praise: Experts Say It’s Imperative We Stop Overpraising Our Kids
The time: 6:30 p.m. The place: A messy kitchen. The characters: My husband, four children, one tortoise (in the cage in the dining room. Sleepy has nothing to do with this story but I thought I’d throw him in), and me. The scene: I’ve biked to the Co-op to buy challah for Shabbat and pedalled back up our steep hill…
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How Do I Get The Naughty Wax Out Of My Kid’s Ears?
“Etani, bring your lunchbox into the kitchen,” I call when my 8-year-old son comes home from school. He throws his backpack on the ground, flings off his coat, and goes to play with Legos. “Lunchbox. Kitchen.” I say again. I’m emptying the dishwasher and feeding the baby some yogurt in said kitchen, so I hesitate to go get him. “Just one…
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