TARA MANDARANO
  • Blog
  • Editing
  • Published Work
  • Contact

I Have a Hero. I Call Him Dad.

4/10/2018

4 Comments

 
Picture
The day starts innocently enough, watching videos under the covers. In my head I am already a bit stressed, since we have to be out the door and do school drop-off early today, in order to make it to a meeting with the vice principal at Eve's potential new school.

It's a week that has already seen me burst into spontaneous tears twice in the last two days, because my hormones are all over the place. So when my four year old with the Calabrese stubbornness refuses to brush her teeth because there's tiny drops of water on the brush, I take it off her and tell her I need some space. Then I lock the door for good measure.

After my shower, I head downstairs feeling slightly more magnanimous, and we hug it out. I am determined to be calm and put together for this school meeting. I make an avocado smoothie and take a satisfying sip. I am being healthy, I am in control. I GOT this.

Then my famous lack of spatial awareness decides to make an appearance. Suddenly the floor is mint green and speckled with glass. I feel those ever-ready tears rise up to the surface yet again, but I will them down and call my husband to help me clean up my mess.

But the vacuuming and blending of a new smoothie is all too much for my girl. She can't hear her Tayo the bus how on the TV, and she is SO not ready to get her coat or shoes on. More mayhem ensues, and then we all practically fling ourselves out the door to escape the negative energy of the house and start the rest of our day. 

But the universe is not done having fun yet. It seems we have another lesson to learn. While Eve screams her head off on the front steps, Michael and I realize something simultaneously. We have closed the door and both forgot our keys. The car keys, of course, are also inside the impenetrable fortress that used to be our house.

It is 8.50 am and we still have to drop Eve off at school and get to Newmarket by 9.30. But it's not going to happen. Michael calls an Uber and we manage to get Eve to school (of course none of this affects her usual routine). But then we are stranded again. It's too much money to take another Uber to Newmarket. We are not going to make the meeting, and we still have no keys.

But someone else does. My dad, that hero of a man who told us to always call on him when he retired (and even before then). Let me know if you need a drive somewhere, he would say. Let me know if I can help in anyway. Well, today we took him up on it, and he drove down to Richmond Hill without even having eaten, to pick us up and bring us home.

That's just who he is. As we sat in our driveway, worn out and still a bit frazzled from the emotional fracas, he asked if we needed anything else. That's just the kind of guy he is. 

Now we are home, the appointment rescheduled, feeling (mostly) settled and back to work, getting on with our different kind of day, and I am just reminded of how grateful I am to have him (and my mother) in my life. They're such a great support system to us, always putting my sister and I (and our families) first. 

So now I will try to get back to my regularly scheduled programming and put this morning's shit-show behind us. And later today we will go get a bloody extra key made to keep somewhere outside our bloody house.

4 Comments

Fibro Is Teaching Me How To Let Go

3/29/2018

4 Comments

 
Picture
The sun was shining, but my body was hurting. I hauled myself out of bed and walked down the stairs, wincing all the way. I took the easy parenting way out and put Moana on for my daughter for the millionth time. I guiltily unwrapped three chocolate chip mini-muffins and dumped them into a plastic bowl. Voila, breakfast.

Then I went back to bed. I just wanted to lie about in my red waffle pajamas all day and hide from the pain. When my fibromyalgia flares up, it sucks the life force right out of me. My motivation to get up and get showered goes right down the drain. Sometimes pain killers work. Sometimes I don't catch the gremlin invasion in time.

It's weird having an invisible illness. I don't LOOK sick, and my joints don't always get red or swollen. Fibro is cunning and unpredictable, and likes to mix up its habitat. It constantly moves to different places around my body - my knees, my elbows, my wrists, my shoulders. Recently it was my big toe, of all things.

I never know where to expect it.

But it always comes before the rain, or a major weather system. I usually get 48 hours notice that pain is on the horizon. I don't know if it's ALWAYS weather or food-related, but It's something I've been battling since 2008. I read recently that it's somehow connected to growing pains. And different reactions to perceived pain signals in the brain.

All I know is that any sort of precipitation is the enemy.

I remember when we went to Portugal last year, and it was sunny for TEN DAYS straight. My joints were beautifully normal and calm; I never felt so great.

Sometimes the hit-by-a-truck fatigue and overall achy feeling of fibro robs me of family time. Instead going to the science centre with my husband and daughter, I often have to to rest in bed, perfectly still after gulping down extra-strength Advil, until my bones didn't feel like they're 80 years old anymore.

Sometimes it means sitting on the other side of the glass on a Sunday afternoon when my daughter has her swimming class, because I don't feel up to being in the water with her for an hour without any support. That's when it really sucks.

You can't SEE this condition. You can't tell if I'm exaggerating. Yes, I'm grateful I don't have lupus or arthritis, but being stuck with a chronic invisible illness is no walk in the park, either. I swear there are horribly nasty days when it hurts so bad that I've found myself scrounging up heavy-duty pain meds from my c-section FIVE YEARS ago, just to get some relief.

The pills may be expired, but they work. They allow me to function, to get my life back.

When they kick in, I usually have two choices. Continue lying curled up in my pajamas watching Grace & Frankie on Netflix, feeling downhearted and not part of this world, or forcing myself up and into the day.

Honestly, it can go either way.

Usually I choose the latter option. Sometimes I go on a half-hour walk and let the cool, brisk air cool me off and calm me down. I try to walk off the discomfort if I can.

I acknowledge the invisible pain and let it do its thing. And then I let it go.

​I let it marinate in my bones, but then I let it go. I let it worm its way into my muscles, but then I let it go. It will drift away eventually, like a tired red balloon on a windy day. I know it will find its way back to me another day, but it doesn't have to define me.

4 Comments

A Letter to My Four-Year-Old Daughter From the Future

1/9/2018

2 Comments

 
Picture

​With you around, life was always full of extremes.

"I love you the most, Mama," I remember you confessing with a conspiratorial smile one night before bed. You tossed it out almost casually, like a gift. It was our secret.

A few days later, you took it back.

"I don't love you anymore, Mama!" you screamed one frigid night Papa put together a wooden car for you he bought in New York. You decorated it together, with your current favourite colours, blue and yeh-yow.

It seemed like your previous passions of pink and purple had been cruelly forgotten, cast aside, just like my top status in your heart.

What I did that night thirty years ago to offend you, I don't remember. I just recall the ice pick sticking out of my chest at your childlike utterance.

​The way you sat on the stairs outside my room and watched me silently cry, eventually crawling into the room and into my embrace so I could make YOU feel better.

Many years and tears have passed since those innocent, throwaway words, and more mature hurts have sprung up between us. The usual mother-daughter battles we are destined and blessed to go through together.

Not everything is a state of emergency anymore. That I am grateful for. My current ticker couldn't take the excitement. I am old and relieved to be free of certain things like tantrums and slammed doors, but I still remember the way you used to pronounce the word "world" like a man from the 1940s. It would come out sounding weirdly wonderful, like "wieuld," and there was nothing better I'd ever heard.

When you were four, you would always skip the number 15 when counting to 20, no matter how many times we reminded you of its existence. You would also cheat constantly at Snakes 'N Ladders, all coy eyes and side grins. I let you win most of the time, for my own peace of mind. If I didn't, you'd turn your back on me and pout out the window. Or immediately demand a rematch. We must have played it eight thousand times. My knees and hips wouldn't survive that wooden floor now.

I don't have to prepare your breakfast anymore, or cajole you to eat something other than crackers. Do you still prefer Cheerios in the morning and shredded cheese and nectarines for dinner? I wonder if your kids will also be picky eaters. You can blame your father for that. You got that gene from him.

Sometimes when Papa and I are sick of playing cards or watching documentaries or just seeing our own faces, we watch videos of you. Back when you had baby teeth and baby thumbs you still sucked at night.

Now your woman's hands remind me of my own, before time and age spots took them hostage. I wish I could hold yours more. I remember painting your nails for the first time, with cheap Frozen polish that came off nearly as quick as it went on. Now it is you taking my arm as we cross the street. Your eyes that scan the roads for any potential danger.  That used to be my job.

It seems like we have switched places in so many ways.

I remember when you got your first ear infection, how you couldn't hear properly for weeks afterwards. "Talk louder, Mama!" you would shout angrily, thinking I was plotting to annoy you. Your father and I would have to hold you down and force the medicine down your throat. Sometimes the ordeal could last a good 20 minutes while you took breaks and deep breaths.

Now it's me with the bad hearing. I long to listen to you hum under your breath. I wouldn't even mind your incessant questions, your constant "why?"s. Your quick video calls these days just aren't the same as seeing you up close, seated beside me on the couch. When you come home on Sundays and lean in and talk into my good ear, it feels like love. It feels like you never left the nest.

It's the only time my heart doesn't hurt in my chest.

I remember that old intimacy we had when I was still young and you were a small child. The way you would depend on me for everything. How you would curl up in my lap for comfort. The way I would croon and rock you back and forth, soothing away a world of hurts with only my arms and heart.

I felt so powerful then, so full of womanly focus and purpose. I was a lioness.

I know you feel the distance, the pain of being growing up. Sometimes you still bury your face in my neck and pull me close when the loneliness gets too much.

There are days when it feels like all I have left are aches and pains and crosswords. Pills and doctor's appointments. There are no more forks in the road for me, just rest and reflection. There is a time for living, and a time for introspection.

​Now I get to sip chai tea all day long and finally get around to reading all those books I bought and piled in a tower in the bedroom. I await your visits and the possibility of grandchildren and ponder all the lines on my old lady hands, the ones that have led me to you, my unconditional love.
2 Comments

At the Edge of 40

11/24/2017

2 Comments

 
Picture
​There can either be saudade or glory
In this hilly, ancient city crammed
With tiles and custard tarts

As my new age slyly winds its way
Around the corners of my eyes. 

My old self is a mirage. 
I am fuller of figure now, 
With little lights of grey matter
Fizzling out like birthday wishes
After all the candles have melted down. 

During this decade, I got hitched and had a baby in the wrong order,
which turned out to be the only way my fate could unfold. 

My thirty-something identity has peaked,
along with my hips and fertility.
These days, my body is mostly beyond me,
but my heart, that treacherous, wondrous muscle of mine, 
it's still a miracle, 
and it keeps the time just fine. 

Pounding up six flights of stairs
To a stranger's flat in Lisbon, 
It reminds me to pause and breathe 
In the memory of everything 
unfurling

During this unseasonably warm November,
when she is teetering on the precipice of girlhood 
while climbing on a foreign playground

And I am inhaling one-euro wine 
while holding hands with my hero, 
who is disguised as my husband,
plotting which bookshop we should hit next. 

2 Comments

Why I'm Happy To Be A Freelance Writer

9/22/2017

1 Comment

 
Picture
Today I am happy and excited to be a freelance writer. Often there are stretches of time when work is light or even non-existent. Contracts come and go. Contacts disappear. There is no sure footing in the freelance world, no stable paycheque to hang your hat on every two weeks.

And yet, despite all this, the lifestyle fits. It works for me. The more I do it, the more I wonder how much it's about the flow of energy. It seems to go better for me when I think positively, and even embrace the uncertainty.

Recently, I had a bunch of pitches rejected from a magazine I've published with in the past. I was beginning to lose hope that I would ever have anything accepted by them again. And then, a couple weeks ago, a month after sending my last idea into the void, I heard back. Green light!

Today I interviewed a woman who's created a web series for the CBC about her infertility journey. And do you know the wonderful, most surprising thing? It's absurdly and hilariously funny! For me, it's such a refreshing take on what's usually such a sad and heartbreaking story.

Of course I checked the Voice app on my phone was working before she called. My husband even got involved, showing me what to do (since I usually do interviews through my computer—weird, I know).

So do you know what happened when she called? The bloody record function wouldn't work! Now, my already-anxious mind was already busy sending my nerves into a frenzy, so it's probably the last thing I wanted to happen at this particular moment.

Luckily, I have a techie-inclined (or just fast-thinking) hubby who works at home with me. Instead of letting the panic win, I simply told my interviewee about my technical difficulties and laughed it off while he dashed down to the basement to get his tablet (which had working Voice app).

In recent years, I've really learned that sharing any type of vulnerability instantly makes me more real to other people. When I confessed my initial recording woes, the woman I was interviewing told me that she was actually feeling under the weather, and shared a bit of herself with me.

I am so excited to watch this TV show she's created, and perhaps see some of my own steps on the infertility journey reflected back at me. I followed her on Twitter the other day to get a sense of her writing, and today she made my day by saying she had read MY article, the one that just got nominated for Best of the Net. She even called herself a "big fan"!

It's an amazingly beautiful feeling when another writer you respect validates your own scribbling—never mind someone who's just written a television series. It helps soothe the sting from getting rejected from The New Yorker yesterday (lofty ambitions, I know).

So today I am grateful to be a journalist, an essayist and a reporter of this mysterious thing called life. I'm happy for the fall sun shining outside my window as I work. I'm glad to be feeling well and able to document the good things about being a writer. I am also pushing myself to write more about things that really interest me.

Next week I'll be interviewing an author, a first for me. I read her memoir recently, and decided to reach out through her website and see if I could snag an interview. Her PR person got back to me quickly, and said yes. I wouldn't even have had the idea if it weren't for an ex-colleague, who got in touch recently to ask if I was still freelancing. Today I thank her for thinking of me.
​
Freelance life is all about connecting—making new connections and nurturing old contacts. Keeping in touch. It's a empowering feeling to feel like you're helping to write your own happiness, your own life story. Today, I thank you—each and every one of you beautiful souls—for coming along on the journey with me.
1 Comment

I'm a Best of the Net Nominee!

9/12/2017

0 Comments

 
Picture
I'm thrilled and honoured that one of my personal essays has been nominated for the Best of the Net! "If I Don't Have More Than One Child, Am I Still A Good Mother?" is about the biggest decision I've ever made in my life, and how I wrote my way through it.
It was difficult to put myself out there in such a vulnerable way, to share all the secret thoughts and the dark moments that lived in my heart, but it was oh, so worth it. I've never received such an amazing response to one of my articles before.

The amount of complete strangers who contacted me to share their stories blew me away. Other ordinary women and mothers, just like me, who had struggled with the same question, and the same conflicting feelings. I felt such comfort and strength from these other mothers who were walking a similar path, and I never would have received such gifts without baring my heart online.

A huge thank you to Julianne Palumbo and Michelle Riddell for the nomination and validation. The Mothers Always Write site is such a beautiful, nurturing home for women's writing, and I encourage all my writer friends to submit there.

​I haven't been putting pen to paper as much recently, with different freelance contracts and day jobs, but this nomination inspires me to put my creative hat back on again. What a thrill this is! In case anyone's wondering, Best of the Net is a yearly anthology of the best poetry, fiction and nonfiction on the web.

0 Comments

Comfortable In My Own Skin Again

7/14/2017

6 Comments

 
Picture
Back when Eve was a baby and I was skinny. It's funny how most mothers say they struggle to lose weight after pregnancy, when my story is so different.

I gained 35 pounds over the nine-plus months of waiting for my baby, but it didn't really bother me. It was within the healthy range. I remember happily existing on bagels and Pringles and spaghetti. I couldn't stomach chicken or salmon, or anything remotely healthy or good for me.

I was so anxious that I didn't start actually showing until my fifth month of pregnancy. I thought there was something wrong with me, or the baby. Now I realize it just took a while to show on my then-slim frame. After month five, though, there was no turning back, and my body blossomed and housed a miraculous magic show in my womb.

I was as shocked as anyone when I promptly lost those 35 pounds of pregnancy weight in about a month after giving birth. I was breastfeeding, but my supply was incredibly low, so we were also supplementing with formula.

I probably didn't take care of myself as well as I could have at the time by eating regularly, but I was consumed by the fact that my daughter was constantly starving and extremely colicky. Postpartum depression also had me in its teeth.

When I gave up breastfeeding at four months and got my sense of self back, I also began taking the birth control pill again. Within a few months the number on the scale started to creep up and my clothes were no longer hanging off of me. I didn't mind being 138 pounds. I still felt comfortable in my skin, and I knew I looked healthy.

Now it's three years later, and I'm no longer under 140, or even 150. It's tough to know if there are any other culprits in my weight gain besides me. Do antidepressants increase the chances of putting on pounds and stimulating your appetite? Maybe. Does stress eating and carb-loading (especially at certain times of the month) hurt? Definitely.

In the last few months I've noticed myself experiencing scary low blood sugar episodes where I'll feel my heart pounding rapidly and my craving for something sweet skyrocketing. My hands will start shaking and I'll have to stop whatever I'm doing to get some juice into me. These crashes led me to my naturopath, who thought it would be a good idea to order insulin testing.

On doctor's orders, I went to McDonald's one morning and ate the entire pancake and maple syrup breakfast, every last sickeningly sweet bite. Two hours later, I got my blood taken. The results showed my insulin was about two times what it should have been, which means my body is producing a lot of extra insulin just to try and deal with the sugar hitting my bloodstream.

I have an appointment with an endocrinologist in the fall, but it's sort of been a wake-up call. Since I have polycystic ovaries (PCOS), it puts me at an increased risk for type-2 diabetes. It's scary to think I could be heading down that path and putting my health in jeopardy.

I'll find out more in October, but for now I'm trying to make small changes and start healthier eating habits. It's really hard to say no to that caramel Frappuccino on a hot day. It's so easy to toast a bagel for breakfast in the morning. It's tempting to stay inside when it's raining and not bother walking.

But none of these things are helping me. Going low-carb is intimidating, and I worry that I'll always be hungry, but if it fixes my fatigue and crashes and cravings for sweets, it would be worth it to give up bread and pasta and potatoes.

I've learned to accept and embrace my body in all its incarnations over the years, and I know having a baby will change your shape forever, but I just want to be comfortable in my own skin again. I don't want a big belly, or to feel my pants pinching. I want to be able to keep up with my daughter when she's running.

I don't need to be a size two or four or six, but I'd like to drop a couple sizes. I could care less about fitting into skinny jeans, but maybe putting my intentions on social media will help me hold myself accountable, even though it's tough to reveal such vulnerability.

​I know my girl and my husband love me whatever weight I am, but I want to be more at ease with the woman I see in the mirror. I don't want to keep having to buy new clothes that fit me or feel self-conscious about what people think when they see me. It's terrible when you feel like you've lost control of your body, so I'm determined to try some new things and see if I can get back to feeling like me.

6 Comments

Superheroes Disguised As Three Year Olds

6/6/2017

2 Comments

 
Picture
"Mama, I'm not a superhero."

She confesses it as I'm tucking her into bed at the end of the day, when my patience is at its thinnest.

"My belly's telling me I'm not the fastest runner. Not at the park. Not at school. Not anywhere."

It amazes me how a three year old can experience anxiety in her solar plexus. Her gut is worried that she isn't good enough, that she's not measuring up. How early our insecurities set in.

"You DO have superpowers," I insist. "You can run like the wind. You can dance up a storm. You can sing in a big loud voice."

She's not buying it. She doesn't believe she can be Batgirl anymore. These traits aren't anything special to her. To me, though, they're everything. I don't care that I'm probably not supposed to tell her she's extra-special, or out of the ordinary. I've thrown that parenting rule right out the window, along with a bunch of others.

When your child is predisposed to doubt herself and struggles mightily with self-esteem, you find yourself saying anything to boost them up, to help them bloom.

When she says we have to buy more superpowers, I sigh.

Self-confidence is not something I can purchase for her at the mall. I tell her it's already inside of her. She just needs to find a way to get it out.

But she's not having any of it.

So when she insists that her superpowers are stuck in the ceiling, I make a production out of pulling them down and magically putting them back in her belly. She giggles and I remind her not to let them wiggle out.

Oh, if only I could do this for her for all of her days. But I can't. She's becoming more self-aware, more inclined to judge herself in comparison to her classmates. The other day she said she didn't like her name; she wanted to be called Georgia instead, like the little girl at her school who's super-social.

"Do you know what Wonder Woman's real name is?" I asked her.

She shook her head, but I could sense she knew where this was heading.

"It's Eve. A beautiful name for a strong superhero."

Now when we see Wonder Woman promoted everywhere we go, she gives me a secret smile that says she remembers.

Her identity is safe with me.

The world, in its cruel-but-kind way, will make her forget that she has any superpowers soon enough. It will test her courage and strip her of her golden cape, forcing her to dig deep and find the strength to fly.

​For now, I will do everything I can to instil faith and confidence in my girl. Every time she takes off her protective mask and talks openly to our friends and family, I see glimmers of the daring young woman she's bound to become.
2 Comments

Marriage Isn't Always Magical, But I'd Do It All Again

5/24/2017

3 Comments

 
Picture
Today I woke up two years married and nine years blessed, so I decided to make breakfast a little more magical than usual. I pulled the Mr. and Mrs. signs from our wedding reception out of a box in the basement and attached them to the backs of our chairs. I made a poem out of book spines and arranged them on the stairs. I placed my paper-flower bouquet in the centre of our dining table. When my husband and daughter joined me, we celebrated with cheerios, chocolate eclairs and cake pops.

My husband and I have been official now for 728 days, but our love has always been legit, even when it wasn't recognized by the government. Getting hitched just cemented our private commitment in public. We didn't do things the traditional way, welcoming a baby before we strolled down the aisle, but it only brought us closer together as a couple. Having our love child witness our love story in that way meant the world to us.

She is in our wedding pictures. Decked out in a miniature white dress, she's wearing a bow in her hair and ruffled socks. In one shot she is blissfully drinking from her bottle while being cradled in her grandmother's arms.

That day two years ago seems so far away—and like yesterday. I remember the tears in my husband's eyes when he read out the vows he'd written beforehand. I recall the catch is his voice, the pause he took before he continued on. It let me know that I'd definitely made the right choice.

I remember us in our finery. His dapper, light-grey suit; my blush-coloured trumpet gown. It's a far cry from the mismatched pajamas, mutual bedhead and morning breath that has accompanied every other day of our lives before and since.

But deep down, the love is the same. Our pledge to each other remains. Forever is still the end goal.

That doesn't mean the interim is easy, however. When the honeymoon is over, real life begins. How you handle it is everything.

Love is the calm that comes over me when I hear my husband singing. Love is sticking it out when my person's best self disappears during his worst moments. Love is learning to accept all my partner's peccadilloes and pretending they're no longer my pet peeves.

Love is sometimes impatient; it can often be unkind. Marriage can be the loveliest, longest date with your soulmate, but it's also a lifelong marathon filled with mundane minutiae. You sign up for it thinking you know what's in store. You figure that if you've trained hard and practiced at playing house and being parents together, you've probably got a head start on happiness. You don't.

It will wear you down, this marriage, even as it props you up. The everyday drudgery will eat away at the romance that used to come so naturally. You will find yourself keeping mental score of whose turn it is to clear the dishes or do the laundry. The petty will often threaten to overwhelm the poignant, but it is possible to keep the poetic magic alive. It will just look different, and you have to accept that.

It may include a tiny human or two hanging off your ankle, pulling you away from your partner and that hand you used to hold. It may move houses with you and sometimes sleep in different rooms. It also will seek solace and space to grow, for you both need time apart to tend your individual paths.

If you're lucky, love will persist and transform into something even more powerful as time goes on. It won't always be easy to hang on to, but you will find it waiting, hiding in unexpected moments amidst the chaos of the day.

So two years later, I'm marking time by remembering all the highs and lows of marriage and saying YES. I STILL DO. I'd take it all again, this eternal promise to love and support my best friend. He's not perfect, and neither am I, but all we know is that we want to do this thing we do until the universe ends, or until we die.
3 Comments

Time and Tethering

5/18/2017

1 Comment

 
Picture
6 months vs 42 months. Her big eyes continue to beguile me. They see through to my source, missing nothing, including my moods, which she reflects back at me. Her hair is lighter now, with a tendency to tangle. She hates for me to tame it, or her. They say the days are long, but the years are short. Whole stages pass in an afternoon. "I don't need you anymore," she said recently, carelessly. She is becoming more herself now, less my shadow, and I know I should embrace her growth. And I do. But nobody tells you how exquisite the ache is when you lose your baby and gain a little girl. My heart is broken, gaping open with love and newfound wisdom. I want to slow down time and keep her close, but that's not the way it goes. Nevertheless, my soul remains tethered to hers.
1 Comment
<<Previous
Forward>>
    Picture

    Tara Mandarano

    is a writer, editor, and poet. Her writing ​has been nominated for the Best-of-the Net award, and has appeared in The Washington Post, HuffPo, Today's Parent, Los Angeles Review of Books, and Motherwell, among numerous other publications. She is also an advocate in the mental health and chronic illness communities.

      Never miss a post!

    Subscribe to Newsletter

    Archives

    May 2021
    February 2021
    March 2020
    November 2019
    May 2019
    July 2018
    May 2018
    April 2018
    March 2018
    January 2018
    November 2017
    September 2017
    July 2017
    June 2017
    May 2017
    April 2017
    March 2017
    February 2017
    January 2017
    October 2016
    September 2016
    August 2016
    May 2016
    April 2016
    March 2016
    February 2016
    January 2016
    December 2015
    November 2015
    October 2015

    Categories

    All

    RSS Feed

    Picture
    I'm Published by Mamalode!
    Picture
Proudly powered by Weebly
  • Blog
  • Editing
  • Published Work
  • Contact