After my divorce, I had full custody of my sons, which added an extra layer of closeness between us. Many moms may find this story unrelatable because they don’t get involved in their sons’ relationships. To be clear, I feel equally close to the guys my boys forged friendships with and consider some to be like sons to me. As my kids grew older, their relationships with their girlfriends felt more serious. I would tread carefully while wondering if this could be the one. When the girlfriends came over, I would chat with them to find things we had in common. We would cook together or talk about music, fashion, and life; we would bond uniquely over time.

My oldest son didn’t date in high school and brought his first girlfriend home from college, which he prefaced with a PowerPoint presentation outlining a set of rules he wanted us to follow during her visit. She had flawless skin, thick hair, and a sexy librarian vibe. I came to learn that this was his type. I booked Gabrielle her first facial; we had manicures together and bonded over baking cookies. I wanted her to like me because she might be the one. But she wasn’t, and we’re still friends on Facebook.

Chase dated a few other girls after that, but no one seriously until he brought home Nicole (her real name because she is the one!). I sensed that Nicole was important because Chase and I had many phone calls about her. He recited what she was wearing the day he first saw her. This was Nicole’s first time in Los Angeles, so I compiled a list of things she might want to do. She chose to go wine tasting but hadn’t brought clothes for cooler weather. I offered her coats, scarves, and accessories, and came in so hot she must have been like, lady, chill out! I’m notorious for my big personality, and no doubt I overwhelmed her with my desperation to have her like me. After all, I was pretty sure she was the one. She borrowed a leather jacket from me, which looked fabulous, and after the visit, she bought the same coat for herself. We’ve had a lot of laughs over that first visit and how I came in hot, but thankfully, she dealt with my desperation for her to like me, and now she loves me.

My middle son, Campbell, dated the same girl throughout high school, so she became like a daughter to me. I watched her mature and grow into a beautiful woman. She was funny, sweet, bright, and had great friends who all came over quite a bit, so I got to know them, too. Margot was great for my son, and she couldn’t lie to me, so whenever I needed the truth, I could count on her to tell me the straight story. I grew incredibly close to Margot, and it was hard for me when she and Campbell broke up. I felt it was the best for both of them, but I couldn’t say goodbye to her forever. She had stolen a piece of my heart. Margot and I are still friends on Instagram; we’ve had lunch a few times and DM each other occasionally. I will always root for Margot and wish her the best. Campbell now lives with someone who was my youngest son’s dear friend in high school, so I already knew her well. Olivia (her real name) is the perfect match for Campbell. She is kind, caring, intelligent, hardworking, and passionate about helping the planet. Olivia spends holidays with us, and we have dinner every few weeks. I treat her like my daughter and genuinely want her to love me because she might be the one!

My youngest son started dating a neighbor in his fifth-grade class. I met her parents, and we became friends. This girl was feisty, strong-willed, and clever. She had a bit of street in her, which I related to. The relationship between my son and Brianna didn’t last long, but I keep in touch with her and consider her a friend. After Brianna, Bailey met Ally at a skate park, and they soon became a couple. Since they were still in middle school, I monitored the situation closely, which helped me get to know Ally well. She was at our house a lot. Her grandmother was raising her, and I felt I could positively influence her life. Bailey and Ally broke up, but she still calls me her other mother, and I see her often. I couldn’t bear to break up with Ally just because Bailey did.

Bailey started dating Gabrielle in college. She was intelligent, fashionable, and fiery. I wouldn’t have gotten to know her well since they were on the East Coast, but she lived with us for a while when the school closed due to COVID-19. Gabrielle and I bonded over our mutual love for fashion and writing. We worked out together, talked, prepared meals, and forged a deep connection. They dated for a few years, and they weren’t right for each other, but she had become my friend. The breakup was painful and dramatic, which made it hard for me not to cut ties without violating my son, but she and I had a different relationship. Did I need to break up with her, too? I’m still friends with Gabrielle and cheer for her success, and that’s okay with my son. Bailey met Carolina (her real name) after he graduated from college. They now live together in NYC. I adore Carolina, and we have connected over our love of fashion, Pilates, skincare, and being strong, independent women. Carolina is stylish, intelligent, thoughtful, and loyal. She moved from LA to NYC, completed her master’s, and has an impressive career. Under her quiet demeanor is an absolute badass. Carolina and Bailey recently moved in together, and I want her to love me because I’m pretty sure she is the one.

I’m smiling as I wrap up this story, thinking about all the amazing women I have met through my three sons. Each one has left an imprint on my heart. I love women and appreciate their differences, how they view the world, and their place in society. Every one of my son’s girlfriends has changed me for the better. But I still grapple with this question: When my sons end a relationship, do I need to end it, too?

The post When one of my sons breaks up with his girlfriend, do I need to break up with them, too? appeared first on Jennifer Irwin | Writer and Author.

We checked in at the front desk, where we confirmed our scrub appointments and were handed a locker key, a tip envelope, and a uniform that resembled something you might see in prison. My friend Norma led the way as the most seasoned scrubber in the group. The locker room was large, and finding our lockers took a while. Norma instructed me to remove all my clothes and put on the robe hanging in the locker. After removing my bra, I put on the robe, shimmied off my panties, and tossed them on the locker. The key and robe were my only accessories. Norma instructed me to take the tip envelope right before I closed my locker.

We entered the warm, steamy water room, where Norma and Tasha removed their robes and placed them on a shelf with their tip envelopes. Adjacent to the shelves was a series of showers with a sign that said, SHOWER BEFORE ENTERING THE POOLS. I quickly assessed my surroundings. There was a large dipping pool, a cold plunge, and a smaller hot pool with jets. That caught my eye because I figured I could hide in the swirling water. I demurely removed my robe and rinsed myself in the shower next to Norma and across from Tasha, averting my eyes from locking into anyone’s body parts. Other women were in the shower area, and many were in the various pools—young, old, fat, thin, and all seemed unselfconscious.

Once properly rinsed, Norma led us to the hot tub, where we all submerged ourselves. With each minute I was there, buck naked, vulnerable, and completely self-conscious, my nerves eased. After all, I wasn’t the only one naked. We were all naked. There was a half wall on one side of the room where I could hear a woman’s voice belting out names. Norma told me we should listen for our names when it was time for our scrubs. We moved from the hot tub to the main pool, dipped quickly into the cold plunge then back to the hot tub. There was a mother and daughter in the main pool chatting, a group of women gathered together bantering in Korean, and a few lone rangers appearing peaceful and comfortable in their nakedness. The longer we were in the pools, the more relaxed I felt.

I tried not to compare myself with the others. My body has served me well, but it’s not perfect. Life has taken a toll: childbearing, scars from surgeries, and years of playing sports. Too many sweets, cocktails, and decadent meals were all signs of a well-lived life. I learned that when we are all naked, we are all equal in our nakedness, which I found to be quite beautiful and freeing. Being nude with my friends brought me closer to them, a sort of bonding kinship. I admired every woman in the spa who proudly walked around naked, free, and open for all to see. Women can be so hard on themselves, brutally critical, and filled with self-loathing. But as time passed, I felt better and more comfortable in my skin because we were all beautiful. Everyone has flaws, and we all have redeeming qualities, too.

Our names were called in unison, and I followed Norma into the back behind the half wall. A woman introduced herself and instructed me to lie on a table. The entire room was lined with tables; each had a woman in her underwear rubbing the naked person lying on the table. Everything was wet and steamy, with a watered-down scent of jasmine and eucalyptus.

My scrubber was wearing white panties and a cotton bra. She covered my breasts and vagina with a small folded towel, then placed a scented mask over my eyes. I felt buckets of warm water thrown over me, and she began scrubbing. As she scrubbed my skin, I pictured every bad thing that had happened over the past year being cleaned off my body as though this scrub session would be a new beginning, a fresh start, a clean slate. There were pills of dead skin flaking off my body as she scrubbed, rinsed, and repeated. “Turn over,” she said with a thick accent. I smiled and obeyed. She scrubbed my skin raw, and it felt terrific, as though I was a newborn baby.

After the scrub, we put on our robes and took an elevator to another spa floor, which entered a large, co-ed, quiet room with grass mats where people rested with their eyes closed. There was a path of massaging rocks to walk on. I strolled over it multiple times, feeling my body relax more than it had in years. Around the quiet room were other smaller rooms. One had walls covered in Himalayan salt known for its healing powers. We lay down and closed our eyes. I pictured the salt powers radiating through me, healing me. Tasha struggled to be quiet for long, which I appreciated and related to. Norma cracked jokes about how long she would last in each quiet room, and I was relieved to be with someone with a monkey brain like me.

When we had maximized our quiet time, we went to the front desk to fill out our tip envelopes. I tipped generously, grateful to have been scrubbed clean and to have a fresh start.

The post I Went to a Korean Spa appeared first on Jennifer Irwin | Writer and Author.

There have been periods of time when I would be doing really well until something would trigger me, bringing back negative thoughts and feelings. Over the past few years, I decided to be more open with friends and family about how I’m doing, which has helped significantly. People with complex PTSD have trust issues, so I keep my inner circle small and have surrounded myself with caring friends and my supportive family, who have helped me in more ways than I can express in writing.

A few years ago, one of my sons attended a medical conference at UCLA about psychedelics with a friend who was a medical resident. After the conference, he shared a lot of what he had learned about how psychologists and therapists have had success using certain psychedelic medications like mushrooms and LSD to help people who suffer from PTSD. It was interesting and intriguing, but I had never done drugs, and they generally frightened me. My father was a drug addict and bipolar. As a result, I never felt comfortable being out of control. I wasn’t sure if my father did drugs to quiet his mind or if the drugs triggered his bipolar disorder, but I wasn’t going to take any chances with my brain by doing mind-altering drugs.

Over the past year, there has been more information on how certain psychedelics can heal people who suffer from PTSD. Netflix recently released a series called HOW TO CHANGE YOUR MIND, about the history and uses of psychedelics in treating certain mental disorders. A podcast I listen to called THE WORLD’S FIRST PODCAST, featuring Sara and Erin Foster, did an episode called Healing Through Psychedelics with Zev Eisenberg, a licensed mental health counselor, and James Gangemi, a certified life coach and trained psychedelic integrative specialist. The episode discussed how Jordan Foster has had success using microdosing and macrodosing to heal her childhood trauma. There seemed to be a lot of new information about this method of healing PTSD, and I was interested in learning if this treatment could help me, too.

With the help of a psychedelic-integrated specialist, I started microdosing psilocybin. This means that I take a very small dose of psilocybin, also known as magic mushrooms, every day for a period of time. The amount that equates to a microdose is smaller than half of a pea. I have never hallucinated, seen colors, felt unsteady, weird, out of control, or seen any images that I wasn’t planning on seeing while microdosing. I have to preface this by stating that I am not a therapist or an expert on microdosing and can only speak from my experiences with this treatment. Since I started microdosing, my mind has cleared from reliving my past traumatic experiences. I’m finally free from the chains of my past, and my brain has somehow reset itself in the best way possible. I am incredibly grateful to my family, who has encouraged and supported me to embark on this healing journey. If you suffer from PTSD and are interested in learning more about microdosing, I suggest seeking support from a medical team with expertise in this treatment method. You can also find helpful information on the microdosinginstititute.com website.

There is a lot of shame around mental health, and it’s terrifying to share such personal things about myself. But, if I can help just one person who suffers from PTSD by sharing my story, then it is worth it.

The post Microdosing Mushrooms Healed My PTSD appeared first on Jennifer Irwin | Writer and Author.

LOS ANGELES —  Glass Spider Publishing announces that its author Jennifer Irwin is the recipient of the Book Excellence Award and the Readers’ Favorite Award for her latest novel A Dress the Color of the Moon.

read press release

The post Local Novelist Jennifer Irwin Wins Two Prestigious Industry Awards for “A Dress The Color Of The Moon” appeared first on Jennifer Irwin | Writer and Author.

The post A Dress The Color Of The Moon gets 5 stars from Reader’s Favorite! appeared first on Jennifer Irwin | Writer and Author.

The post My Mother’s Kitchen appeared first on Jennifer Irwin | Writer and Author.

The summer of 1980, before starting college, I landed a job as a nanny working for a divorcee. She had rented a house on an island off the coast of Connecticut. The woman was a friend of my mother’s and had two daughters—one was eight, the other ten. The mother had told me during the interview that I would be alone on weekdays and she would come from the city on the weekends. The girls were sweet, especially the younger of the two and I was excited to be in charge.

“You have your license, don’t you?” Mrs. Heim asked. She exuded nervous energy with extreme glamour. Her figure fascinated me since I lacked hourglass curves. My body resembled more a toothpick than a pear. Her full lips were coated in red lipstick some of which had wandered onto her front teeth. It was difficult to picture her at the beach or wearing casual attire.

“Yes,” I said. “I can drive quite well.”  Since I’d attended boarding school, I hadn’t driven much. It seemed okay to stretch the truth because I wanted the job.

“Fantastic,” she said. “I have a Volvo for you to use all summer. You’ll need it to take the girls to camp, pick them up, get groceries and such.” Mrs. Heim pressed her large, black-framed sunglasses up the bridge of her nose. “No boys, parties, or anything like that.” She examined her manicure. “I’m sure you understand.” Then her demeanor switched like a tail light blinker. “You’re going to have a lot of fun this summer!”

I took notes during my interview to appear more professional. The word fun written in upper case which I promptly doodled flowers around. Mrs. Heim offered me the job and asked me to start on Friday. We would have the weekend together to review the schedule, and then I’d be on my own.

With a duffle bag full of summer clothes, I caught the train from Long Island to the city to meet Mrs. Heim and her daughters at their apartment on Park Avenue. We would then drive to the ferry which would take us to the island. Since I had never visited Fisher’s Island, I had no idea what to expect. The boat, Mrs. Heim told me, held both cars and people. There were vehicles lined up in three tight rows waiting to board. We stepped out of the Volvo once the operator had directed us onto the ferry. I spotted a multitude of attractive people carrying L.L. Bean canvas totes. The men wore pants Mrs. Heim deemed Nantucket Reds, which were a faded salmon color. Teenaged boys wore backward baseball caps with college logos, the girls in ponytails, wisps of hair haloing around their heads.

The younger daughter, Louise, held my hand as we stood on the upper ferry deck. She looked up at me and smiled. Her dark, wiry hair a bit out of place with the other kids. I reached down and adjusted her hairband. “You’re beautiful you know,” I said. Louise giggled. Agnes, the other daughter, stood close to her mom. She was in the early stages of puberty, awkward, slightly chubby and self-conscious. I made a mental note to treat the kids with kindness and shuddered at the thought of my painful childhood. My heart swelled with pride by the idea of being responsible for two little lives. The ferry pulled away from the dock while seagulls swarmed overhead. Mrs. Heim wrapped an arm around Agnes; her shopping bag placed on the deck. A box from a bakery called, Dumas balanced on top. Several teens congregated on the bow laughing and talking. A sense of smallness overcame me. I was a nobody, a nothing.

Louise wanted to buy candy at the snack bar. On the wall was a map of Fisher’s Island which looked long and narrow. There was a small town on one end with a road cutting through the middle. A golf course, two country clubs, a few marinas and various small lanes leading to coastal homes on both sides.

“Our house is on that end,” Louise said, reaching for the map from her tippy toes. My nerves elevated as I pondered the idea of handling two kids all by myself for a whole summer.

Mrs. Heim barreled into the snack bar area. “We’re almost here.” She noticed me looking at the map. “Fisher’s is a hotspot for the upper crust,” she said. “Most of the homes are mansions. There is a lot of history. You know, old money—Vanderbilt, Whitney, DuPont.” She pulled off her sunglasses and leaned into the map. “Our house is right here.”

I worried I might not fit in on the island and that it would be a long, lonely summer. We piled back into the car as the ferry pulled along the dock. I turned to check the girls in the backseat. Louise smiled, and Agnes gazed out the window. 

“You’re going to love it here,” Mrs. Heim said, perhaps sensing my nerves.

There wasn’t much to see from the road except for driveways and an occasional glimpse of the ocean. It seemed we drove down the entire length of the island when Mrs. Heim veered right onto a bumpy dirt road. “You’ll have to take it slow,” she said. “Full of potholes.” We stayed on the dirt for a while until she pulled into a gravel driveway. The house was yellow with white shutters and a grand wraparound porch. Flower gardens edged the house, and the rest was lawn. A badminton net flapped in the breeze. At the end of the property were dunes topped with tall grass and then, the sea. The air felt thick and salty.

“Let me show you your room.” Louise squealed with excitement as she ran to the front door. I followed with my duffel bag dragging behind. Mrs. Heim drew the shades while I followed Louise upstairs. “Here it is,” she said. Her arms were drawn out to demonstrate the grandiosity of the situation. “And I sleep in here.” Louise stepped into the hallway and pointed to the room next door. “We’re neighbors.”

Mrs. Heim popped in. “You have a separate bathroom.” She ushered past me to the window and heaved it open. “This place gets too stuffy when no one is here.” White shears billowed with the breeze. “Ocean view,” she said.

“It’s lovely,” I replied. “Thank you.” I sat on the queen size bed with a pale blue headboard and floral sheets. It was the fanciest room I had ever slept in, and I felt giddy.

“There’s a boy who comes on Wednesdays to mow, water and tend to the flower beds. He’s very handsome.” Mrs. Heim opened the double closet doors. “Hang your dresses in here and use the bureau for other items.” She stood with her hands on her hips. “I’ll let you get settled. How about we plan on heading out to tour and get dinner around four.” Mrs. Heim glanced at her watch. “That gives you a half hour.” She ushered Louise out of my room. I unzipped my bag and pulled out my wrinkled clothes, relieved I’d listened to my mother and packed a few dresses, just in case. I moved as quickly as possible to unpack and then changed into white jeans and a t-shirt with flip-flops. My sandals snapped as I descended each stair.

“Let me show you around the kitchen and talk about what the girls like to eat.” For the next hour, I was madly writing notes. Louise liked peanut butter, Agnes hated it. Louise claimed to be allergic to salmon, but she wasn’t she didn’t like it. Chicken tenders were a good option for dinner. I was to provide a starch, vegetable, and a protein. She whispered that her oldest was putting on weight and expected me to be careful about having too much junk food in the house. “I buy pastries from Dumas on the weekends as their special treat.” I smiled but inside my heart ached for Agnes because no one wants their mom to think they’re chubby. That afternoon, Mrs. Heim introduced me to the deli owner where she held a charge account. We shopped for groceries at the only store in town and ordered a pizza from the Italian restaurant to bring back to the house. At each place we visited, I saw many attractive young people and my insecurities rose. I felt like an outcast and as though no one noticed me. The pizza helped calm my nerves, and during dinner, Mrs. Heim offered me a beer.

“I’m sure you’ve had a beer before,” she said. “But please don’t drink when I’m not here.”

“Of course not,” I said sipping the cold beverage and easing a burp out without making a sound. Mrs. Heim had a full schedule laid out on five sheets of paper. It outlined in great detail where the girls had to be and when. She even had play dates organized, movies, art classes and an ocean safety course taught by the lifeguard at the beach club called Hay Harbor where Mrs. Heim was a member.

“Feel free to charge whatever you would like at the club.” She sifted through the papers. “Our member number is here,” she said. “The girls have it memorized by heart.”

We spent the next few days driving around, reviewing the schedule and getting to know the island. By Sunday, my head was reeling with information, and I prayed I wouldn’t screw up. The girls and I delivered their mother to the ferry staying to wave as it pulled away. There I stood, a kid on either side of me and a world of responsibility on my shoulders.

The first few days things went pretty well. I got lost twice, was late to camp once because Agnes couldn’t decide what to wear. The second week, I forgot to pick her up at the movies. I careened around the corner to find Agnes sitting on the curb in the dark. The minute she got into the car she burst into tears. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I feel terrible. Please don’t cry.” We paid a visit to the ice cream shop, and she calmed down. My nerves rattled for a while, and my heart ached.

 With the tight timing of their activities, I flew down our dirt road while the girls bumped up and down in their seats. A trail of dust behind us. After I delivered the kids to camp on my second week watching them, I stopped at the market and purchased something to make for dinner. I decided to roast a chicken figuring I could call my mother and ask her for directions. When I returned from the store, a pickup truck was in the turnaround preventing me from being able to pull my car in. I checked my watch every few minutes out of fear of being late getting the girls or forgetting to pick one of them up. A tan, blonde guy was wheeling a lawnmower down a makeshift ramp attached to the back of his truck. He looked up and waved.

“Hey,” he said. “I’m Mark.” He smiled and pulled off his shades exposing piercing blue eyes. “Can I help you with your bags?”

“Thank you,” I said feeling as though I were playing grown up. “I’m Maggie; it’s nice to meet you.” I followed Mark into the house. He seemed to know his way around quite well and headed straight to the kitchen. His arms were toned, the hair bleached from the sun. He pulled a carton of milk from the grocery bag and placed it in the fridge. “So, do you live on the island?” I asked realizing it was a stupid question.

“No, I live in New York City,” he said. “My father is the summer minister at the church in town.” He smiled, twisting the baseball cap so the brim faced the wrong way. “I’ll be a junior at the University of Vermont in the fall.” Mark leaned against the white marble counter and stared at me.

“Oh, cool,” I said. “I’m starting at Boston University.” An awkward moment hung between us. My armpits started to sweat and my face heated.

“Hey, there’s a party tonight. Maybe you could come.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Mrs. Heim leaves the kids alone all the time. You have to wait until they’re asleep.”

I wondered how he knew so much about Mrs. Heim and the house, but I opted not to ask. I figured I wouldn’t receive party invites and failed to ask Mrs. Heim if I could leave the kids. “I don’t know,” I said. “I better not.”

“Come on,” Mark said. “Live a little.” He tapped the grass off of his work boots and onto the kitchen floor. “I’ll swing by around nine to get you.” He strolled out the door. A moment later, the lawnmower fired up, and he was out front pushing the machine in straight lines. His t-shirt was off and tucked into the back of his jeans. I nearly died when I saw his muscles.

My mother didn’t answer the phone, but I left her a message asking for instructions to make a chicken. I put everything away and headed to get the girls. Mark waved as I pulled away. My stomach tingled with excitement. “I met a boy today,” I told the kids as they loaded in the car. “The lawn guy, you know, Mark.”

“Mark and Maggie sitting in a tree, K-i-s-s-i-n-g first comes love then comes marriage.” Louise stopped because she was laughing too hard.

“Very funny,” I said. At the four-way stop, I turned to Agnes who was sitting in the passenger seat. “He invited me to a party tonight, but I wasn’t sure if you guys are allowed to be alone.” Agnes had a mouthful of braces and lots of food caked in the front. I tried to focus on the positives rather than pick on her like my mother did to me.

“Yeah, you can.” Agnes smiled. Her hair stiff with salt. “I’m ten after all.”

The phone was ringing when I opened the front door. Agnes ran to grab it. “It’s your mom,” she yelled.

“Hey, Mom,” I said grabbing a pen and paper. “What if I don’t have herbs of Provence?” The phone was tucked between my chin and shoulder while I perused the spice cabinet. “Nope, nothing says that on the label.” I scratched a few more notes and hung up. The most important thing she said was the liquid runs clear, and the leg should be easy to wiggle. I looked at the ominous chicken and wondered if this was going to be worth the effort. Once the chicken was in the oven, I ushered Agnes into the shower and got Louise in the tub.

“Are you leaving us to go to a party?” she asked while I shampooed her hair.

“Just for like an hour,” I said. “Maybe you shouldn’t tell your mom.” She tipped her head back while I rinsed her hair with the handheld. “I mean she might get mad at me.”

“Okay,” Louise said. “I can keep a secret.” I started smelling smoke and remembered the chicken was in the oven. When I opened the oven door, thick black smoke billowed out and clouded my vision. I must have put it too close to the top because it was both scorched and raw. I hurled the chicken into the trash. “We’re going to get a pizza,” I said. “I suck at cooking.” The girls jumped up and down, but I worried there wouldn’t be enough time for me to shower before my date. My hair smelled of grease and smoke. “Dammit,” I said under my breath. By the time I got the pizza, Mark was waiting in the driveway.

“Hi Mark,” Agnes hopped out of the car with the pizza box. I scrambled to unleash my ponytail and pinch some color into my cheeks. No one had prepared me for how hectic it would be watching two kids. I’d barely had time to shave my legs since arriving and was overwhelmed. Mark eased over to the car as I opened the door. He hugged me right in front of Louise which was embarrassing.

“Hey,” I said edging past him. “I’m like not ready at all. Maybe I should skip it.” Mark followed me into the house. “I mean I need like twenty minutes to change and brush my teeth. You know, stuff like that.”

Mark sat at the kitchen table with the girls while I ran upstairs. “Take all the time you need,” he said. “Nothing gets rolling until later anyway.” He helped himself to pizza and got the girls a glass of milk. I threw on my favorite ripped jeans, mascara and a skimpy tank top. Thankfully, I remembered to spritz on some perfume to mask the burned chicken smell. The fact was, I had no idea where we were going or what the attire was, but I figured if it involved college students it would be casual.

“Can we stay up until you get home?” Louise asked. Her arms wrapped around my waist. “Please.”

“I guess,” I said looking at my watch. “Why don’t you get a blanket and watch TV in the family room with your sister.” I peeled her arms off me. “Keep the door locked. I’ll be back in an hour.” I turned the key in the lock with a heavy feeling.

Mark looked super cute in jeans and a t-shirt. His damp hair marked with comb streaks. “You look nice,” he said leaning in for a kiss. We made out in the driveway until I saw Louise pressed up against the window spying on us. Mark threw his car into gear, and we bounced down the dirt road. “This is an uppity group,” he said. “You know, snobs and prepsters.” We drove for a while down narrow roads until he passed through an open gate. Cars lined the driveway on both sides all the way to the house. Mark squeezed into a spot, and I crawled over to his side because I was unable to open the passenger door. Music blared from the yard. The entryway bustled with people holding beers and mixed drinks in monogrammed plastic cups. Mark led me through the crowd until we located a keg.

“Mark.” Some girl draped her arms around his shoulder. “You made it.” She looked me up and down without so much as a smile. “Who’s this?”

“Maggie,” he said. “She’s working as a summer girl.” I reached my hand out which she ignored.

“Thanks for having me,” I said awkwardly.

“No worries,” the blonde said. “Welcome to paradise.”

Mark led me outside where the crowd had gathered. He pulled something out of his pocket. “Do you smoke?” he asked. I was pretty sure it wasn’t a cigarette.

“Um, no I don’t. I mean I never have.” I watched him light the joint and take a hit. He passed it to me, and I tried to fake it but smoke filled my mouth, and I started hacking.

“Easy tiger.” He laughed. I felt dizzy and out of sorts. Within moments, I lost Mark. It was as if he vanished. Panic struck me – I didn’t know where I was or how to get back to the rental. I wandered around looking for him. He wasn’t outside, so I cruised into the house. A few people bumped me, but no one acknowledged my existence. I found Mark chatting with the same girl who greeted him when we arrived. They were standing at the bottom of the curved staircase. It made me think of Gone with the Wind. I couldn’t imagine this place was someone’s beach house.

“I need to get going,” I said. “Can I use your phone to call a cab?” I wasn’t even sure how to get back.

“What?” Mark said. “No, I’ll take you home. We were talking, you know, catching up.”

“If you’re sure it’s not any trouble,” I said.

“What are you going to turn into a pumpkin or something?” The girl sneered at me then laughed.

Mark took my hand. “Libby, be nice.” She planted a kiss on Mark’s cheek.

“See you soon lover boy.” Her ass wiggled as she walked away. I wondered why Mark was even bothering with me.

“We dated last summer,” Mark said as we strolled to his car. “She’s a train wreck.”

I couldn’t figure out what gave Mark the impression that I wasn’t a train wreck. He kept his hand on my knee during the drive. I was still dizzy from the pot, my tongue dense and dry. Mark followed me into the house and helped with putting the girls to bed. They seemed so comfortable as if they’d known him forever. “They like you,” I said as Mark followed me down the stairs.

“Well, I’ve been doing the lawn for a few seasons. It’s a small island,” Mark said. “You get to know people.” We settled on the sofa in front of the TV. Mark’s rough hands moved up my thigh to the edge of my shirt. I reached over and turned out the lamp. It had been a while since I’d made out with anyone and I’d never had sex. Something told me that was about to change. After all, I didn’t want to start college a virgin. I felt ready.

“Want to go get more comfortable?” Mark asked. My bra was undone, dangling from my breasts. I eased out of the sofa and headed toward the stairs. “Let’s go to Dana’s room, more private.” It seemed odd he knew where Mrs. Heim’s room was and was sacrilegious to have sex in my bosses’ bed but I agreed. The thought of the girls catching us was far worse than breaking an unwritten rule. Mark moved around my body like a painter using gentle brush strokes. “Do you have protection?” he asked.

“I’m a virgin,” I said. He hovered over me, ready to enter the place no man had ventured.

“Really?” he said in disbelief. I guess he forgot that I hadn’t answered the protection question because he entered me and exploded after three pumps. He laid on top of me in a heap. “Maybe you should go get cleaned up, try and get it out just in case.”

After that night, Mark carried condoms. It was a matter of weeks before my period was late but I already knew. There wasn’t a lucky bone in my body, and of course, I’d be the one to get pregnant the first time I ever had sex. My breasts were tender, and I was a raging bitch. Something wasn’t right. When Mrs. Heim left that Sunday, I drove to the drugstore to buy a pregnancy test. “Wait in the car,” I said to the girls. Once inside, I stalled in the aisle until the coast was clear otherwise everyone on the island would know. The stick glared positive, and I sobbed on the floor of my bathroom.

“Well, I’m not ready for a kid,” Mark said when I told him the news. “I know a place in Boston.” It was as if he’d done this before, but I didn’t want to know. I asked Mrs. Heim for a few days off to get some things ready for college. I told her I was meeting my mother in Boston and prayed they didn’t communicate to confirm. Mark made the appointment at the clinic and paid for everything. We stayed with one of his friends from college. The place was a dump with beer cans, stinky shoes, and piles of dirty laundry. I almost threw up when I walked in. That night I couldn’t sleep, and when I did the baby was in my dreams. A peanut shaped human, tiny but with perfect features. “Don’t kill me, mommy. I want to live.” In the morning, we drove to the clinic. Mark parked a few blocks away. As we rounded the corner, picketers leered, some screamed, “Murderer!” One woman grabbed me. “You have options! Follow me. Come into the light.” With my head bowed, I followed Mark into the clinic. They offered me a valium but advised that if I took one, I would be required to stay longer. I opted not to. Maybe it was so I could remember the pain.

Mark wanted to get food before we left Boston. He said there was a famous burger place. My stomach heaved with nausea.

“Sorry about everything,” Mark said in between bites. “I feel terrible.” He reached across the table for my hand. “We can’t harp on the bad stuff. Gotta move on.” My body ached. I couldn’t think about what had happened. I slept for most of the drive back to the ferry. My knees buckled when I tried to stand. Mark helped me board the boat, and I laid my head on his shoulder until we arrived at the dock. Something told me that things between us would never be the same.

I saw Mark two more times that summer when he mowed the lawn. He waved as I gazed out the window.

The post Summer Girl appeared first on Jennifer Irwin | Writer and Author.

The post Fear appeared first on Jennifer Irwin | Writer and Author.

Anger is an important emotion and critical to healing from things like childhood trauma, sexual assault, and PTSD. The mere act of expressing anger can release a tremendous amount of toxins. The body feels anger, pain, love, joy, passion, guilt, and fear and if we suppress any of these emotions, we become a vessel of poison. My pent up anger resembled a dam about to break. Often a woman who expresses anger is deemed crazy which is enough to make anyone avoid this emotion. I was afraid to let mine out until I understood that anger is a critical feeling, and when expressed appropriately it can be quite positive. I believe something significant happened on the tennis court the day Serena Williams expressed her anger to the Umpire. We started a dialogue about this difficult to understand emotion and one that many women are terrified to reveal.

The post Anger appeared first on Jennifer Irwin | Writer and Author.

I was raised by a single, hardworking mother. We lived in a cottage with one bathroom and a landlord who never raised the rent. With a junior college degree and a gift for reading people, my mother worked her way up from secretary to partner at an executive search firm. After she was featured in an article titled, “Lessons From Late Bloomers” in Fortune magazine, she passed away. 

Months before her death, I brushed off a chat she wanted to have over the status of her will. Her third husband didn’t believe in leaving money to children. With an unfinished will at the time of her death, my stepfather got the money she had painstakingly earned. My life became a series of moments where I had money, and moments where I had none. I married a man who had not completed college. My job at an advertising agency supported us while he completed his studies. The money from my mother’s life insurance helped us purchase a home to prepare for the birth of our first child. I lacked my mother’s drive for success. Her career skyrocketed while mine floundered. I lived for my husband’s job rather than focusing on what made me happy. By the time my third son was born, we had moved three times due to corporate transfers. I handled our finances. No one had taught me about saving, budgets, investing, credit cards, debt – yet I was in the financial driver’s seat.

On our final move to Los Angeles, I found an affordable home in a strong school district. A few years later, we sold the house for a considerable profit to purchase a car dealership. I entrusted my husband with my savings, the proceeds from the sale of our home, and every cent my mother had left me. A few years later, the dealership closed its doors, and I got divorced. There I was, penniless with three boys. Those were the best and most difficult days of my life. My kids learned I’m a fighter and I don’t give up. We endured the water and electricity being shut off and multiple eviction notices, but we always had each other.

I decided to write a book. Every night, after teaching Pilates for eight hours, I would write. The process healed my heart. I pictured financial freedom while writing a story to help women and change lives. The film rights were optioned. Since then, I have landed a literary agent and won four book awards. My poverty mentality may have been more fear of success than fear of failure. 

The other night, my boys and I discussed money. To my dismay, my middle son stated no one had taught him about finances. The poverty mentality must stop with me. Time to talk to my kids about money.

The post The Poverty Mentality appeared first on Jennifer Irwin | Writer and Author.