Adventures In Motherhood

January 30, Phuket, Thailand Beach day. We lounged at Patong Beach as paragliders floated overhead, each one with a local guide suspended behind on a wire, somehow steering them into safe landings on a crowded strip of sand. Jet skis roared past like buzz saws. A year earlier, I’d been in the same Indian Ocean, in the Bay of Bengal off Chennai, where the waves rose and crashed with such force I’d thrown my arms wide and ridden them like a child. Thailand, by contrast, looked almost tame. The water lapped at the shore like a kiddie pool.  I would soon learn there was nothing G-rated about Patong.  The beach was pristine, with white sand glistening in the sun, while beachgoers of every nationality carefully laid out towels. Bending over to expose a side of diplomatic relations I didn't care to engage in, I tried to focus on my sunscreen application - not the fact that half the crowd appeared born for thong bikinis. The Russians with tattoos, cigarettes, and Speedos, were first i...

“What’s up with the Easter Bunny this year?” my 15-year-old asked, fishing a latex condom from his Easter basket. Its black wrapper read Lifestyles, vanilla , and sat between the Sour Patch Bunnies and Reese's Pieces, nestled inconspicuously in the Scooby Doo basket. Then he pulled out two more: strawberry and fantasy. Feigning surprise and a hint of embarrassment, I couldn’t help but add, “Who knew the Easter Bunny practiced safe sex? Have you seen all those rabbits hopping around?”  I took a quick sip of coffee to conceal my smirk. Admit nothing, deny everything, and make counteraccusations has always been my tradecraft, former CIA operative or not.  “Where’s the Magnums?” my son asked, as he fished for more loot at the bottom of the basket.  Shock at the size of his vocabulary, not the girth of his imagination, made me up the ante.  “Guess the Easter Bunny doesn’t want you screwing like rabbits!” I said deadpan, which was more G-rated than the profanity-laced rema...

No Mom! You're such a Boomer. Don't be a Karen. You have negative aura.  The sighs. The eye rolls. The tea-kettle escalation from being asked to pick up their shit to full-blown screaming. I’ve heard it all as a mom of four. Nothing prepared me for motherhood, but having teen children has definitely prepared me for rejection.  For five months, I parked my ass in a chair and ground out the chapters of Grief, Grace, and Garlic Naan, a travel memoir with a CIA hook I was sure would land a literary agent in weeks. Instead, I learned what every debut memoirist without a celebrity platform eventually learns: the market is not exactly a feeding frenzy. An agent is more likely to drink from the Ganges than devour buttery, delicious garlic naan. Still, the writing made one thing clear: I’ve never felt more alive on the page, and I’m no quitter. Motherhood already trained me for that. This week, between delivering consequences to my 15-year-old for sabotaging coaching relationships on t...