HeyJaredSmotherhood
dispatches from the brink (motherhood, pop culture, and a world on fire)
- Indexed issues, last 90 days
- 11
- Latest publication
- Sep 21, 2026
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- Earliest in this view
- Jul 27, 2026
Latest issues
a comprehensive list of things i will become when i move to paris (opens the original)
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Paris is going to change my whole life. That might sound like romantic hyperbole, but it’s not. I’m moving to a different country with a different culture and a different language and a different pace of life. So I’m going to have to adapt. And not in the super obvious ways, like learning French or explaining to a French government official, without sobbing, why I don’t have a document I’ve never heard of. I mean fundamentally, as a human being. I’ve spent the last few years being a woman who li
saying goodbye to my son’s daycare (opens the original)
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Sooooo recently it’s come to my attention that parenting is just a long-ass series of doorways. You walk your kid through one and then it slams shut behind you while you’re looking for his pink binky (not the blue one. He doesn’t want the blue one. God help you if you give him the blue one.)This week, we’ll walk Cooper through one of the big ones. Thursday is his last day at his daycare — a converted house two minutes from ours, run by a woman named Shila and her staff of women for whom I would,
everything is fine (except my dog’s butthole) (opens the original)
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If you’re a friend or a regular reader, you know we are leaving Los Angeles and moving to Paris. Moving is one of life’s greatest stressors, right up there with divorce, death, and needing to run a quick errand in the ten minutes before you have to pick your kid up from daycare. Needless to say, I was already stressing the fuck out. And then my dog decided (<a href="https://smotherhood.substack.com/p/youve-got-mold-and-more-holiday-fun?r=1lkuae&selection=ce887afc-e0a0-4493-91e0-01e3a9b4962b&utm_
leaving los angeles (part two) (opens the original)
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A continuation of Leaving Los Angeles (part one)Our house is currently in a stage of moving where every room appears to have been burglarized by a very organized criminal with a labeling obsession. And I’ve learned something about myself in the process: I can’t pack a single box in under an hour, because every item I pick up detonates a memory. Seaglass from the beach. A ticket stub from a concert. A baby sock from my son’s first days of life. My husband packs like a normal human adult, while I
leaving los angeles (part one) (opens the original)
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When I was 21, my mother flew out with me from Boston to help set up my first apartment in West LA. I was two months out of college, and so sure of what was coming next that I’d spent spring break of my senior year flying back and forth across the country to find an apartment. My mother hung curtains, organized my kitchen, and ate burgers with me on the floor before I had a dining room table. And then, the day before she left, we went to see Toy Story 3.If you haven’t seen it, what’s wrong with
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