Several years ago, I started to get regular mammograms, as recommended by my doctor, and quickly discovered that "routine," for me, was far from routine.

On most weekdays I help my teenage sons get out the door for school before sitting down to have breakfast with my husband. We talk about our days, discuss any parenting challenges we might be facing, and load the dishwasher before heading to our workdays. His office is in the basement, and on days when I'm working from home, mine is on the second story. We typically meet on the main floor for lunch and another chat. At some point, we find time for a workout — either a run or something from the Peloton app. After the workday, we check in with the kids and leash the dog for a short walk around the neighborhood before working on dinner together. We spend an absurd amount of time together, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Of all of the things from the magical world of Harry Potter I wish were real, the Room of Requirement is at the top of my list. Mostly because I want to build a museum for all of my children’s nostalgic trinkets and trifles, but I don’t have the space in my city house without a guest room.

I saw the uninterrupted sunset so many times from my childhood farm in Iowa — where the flat, treeless landscape stretched endlessly — that the pastels sometimes felt monotonous. Now, when I look west at dusk, the land is still flat.

Books are powerful enough to change minds and challenge ideas, but “Flowers in the Attic” wasn’t powerful enough to turn me into a ballerina attracted to my brother and “The Shining” didn’t transform me into a psychopath, not even during the pandemic.

11.30.21 // Read an Advent devotion on Hope by Kimberly Witt While my diagnosis is not official, I’m sure I suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder. As the days grow shorter and the sun becomes a stranger, I find myself sliding into a state of despair and gloom. Ironically, this happens as we near the season of Advent, a season that’s supposed to be marked by excessive joy as we prepare to celebrate our Savior’s birth. The world, with its overly-obnoxious jingles and excessively-gaudy jangles, does its best to remind me that if I’m not feeling merry and bright, then surely something is wrong with me.

From start to finish, adopting my two sons took over two years. It was two years of paperwork, interviews, training, and waiting. When my husband and I brought our adopted sons home, we had zero experience. We went through our agency's required training and read all the books. It couldn't be that hard, I thought. No one warned about post-adoption depression.

Our connections ebbed and flowed over the years, before the pandemic pushed our interactions into a text thread. Growing up, I was the odd sibling out, younger by seven years. My brother and sister were two years apart, their age a gravitational pull I couldn’t control. My younger age made me a shoo-in for the Most Annoying Sibling award. I’d relentlessly bug my older brother until he’d stuff me inside a hastily emptied toy box, sitting on the lid until Mom heard my muffled cries.

It wasn't a secret to anyone that all of the parenting books and training in the world wouldn't have prepared us for the realities of being thrown face-first into parenting, so Birtukan parented. All of us. She disciplined my sons in her swift-tongued Amharic, and she gave us adults much-needed direct orders, too.

In 2015 I was a high school English teacher in Okoboji when I wrote a Register opinion essay about having challenging conversations about race with my students. I had a supportive administrator cheering me on as I discussed systemic racism and modern-day lynchings, bridging the world from

One fateful night turned into family folklore when I was 16 and missed my midnight curfew. I was sitting in the front seat of my 1979 Monte Carlo talking with a soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend, watching the minutes tick by until midnight and beyond.

I crushed on my first love obsessively, thanks in part to Molly Ringwald. Growing up with older siblings, I received an early introduction to the Brat Pack, watching Pretty in Pink and Sixteen Candles more times than I should probably admit. I imagined myself as Samantha Baker, sitting on top of that magical table and getting kissed by Jake Ryan, candlelight glow illuminating his flawless complexion. I was an expert on teenage angst before I was a teen myself, and I studied the role fastidiously.

I pulled over a few blocks from home and encouraged him, sweaty palms and all, to drive for a few blocks. Like a newborn calf on wobbly legs, he was jerky and unsteady. Every corner was an adventure, every movement reactive, and several times I had to grab the wheel when it appeared he was getting too close to a parked car. But we made it home ― or at least to our block. (I pulled the car into the driveway.)

“You think you’re the only one who wants to go hang out with friends, but you’re not!” I raised my voice in frustration with my 17-year-old son. “We’re all suffering!” I added for dramatic emphasis. And then I went upstairs to cry. Pandemic Fatigue, is that you again? We are all suffering from pandemic fatigue We are nearly eight months into the pandemic, and my teenage sons have been home in a distance learning model since March. I’m juggling part-time work as an on-campus and online adjunct

Remember March? When the world came to a screeching halt? Yeah, me neither. In the midst of the blurry days and weeks, so much has changed about life that pre-COVID sometimes feels like a dream. Remember when we didn’t have to turn around a block from home because we forgot our mask? When the anxiety of planning a visit with aging parents didn’t shave years off your life? There was once a time when grocery shopping didn’t require hours of prep on the front end, and a few months ago, every conv

The theme song to Phineas and Ferb claims that summer vacation has 104 days, but this year that number will be stretched to what feels like thousands. My teenage sons have been home from school since March 10 when a teacher strike led into a pandemic followed by necessary cries for racial justice in our city and around the country. Things were so different when I was a teen.

Over the next two years, the battle continued, both on his screen and in our home. While his older brother met up with friends at the mall or invited basketball friends over after school, my video-game-loving son continued on his quest to dominate Fortnite. He added other games to his repertoire, but Fortnite was never pushed aside for long. I coaxed and poked, prodded and bribed to get him out of the house.

• Kimberly Witt and her husband adopted their two sons from Ethiopia when the boys were eight and nine. • After enduring instances of racism, the Witts moved from their small Iowa town to St. Paul, Minnesota, but they were still targeted. • The recent racist incident in Central Park in New York City and the death of a black man in Minneapolis, reminded Witt that her children won't be safe anywhere they move. It happened again. This time in Central Park in New York City. Amy Cooper, a white wom

Not long after my husband and I were married over 15 years ago, one of our first “grown-up” purchases was an antique, oak kitchen table. It can expand to make room for more guests. Through the years, many guests have indeed dined there, resulting in several scratches and knicks that add to its charm. The table has now traveled with us through moves between four houses in three states.