Hi! I'm Kelly.

As a writer, I've always been interested in family stories. When I heard of a Satanic cult in my family tree, I thought I'd found the story of a lifetime. Read more.

Poor monkey.

Poor monkey.

This evening ended on a sour note. We had a nice dinner. The boys were being so good and sweet. They pushed each other around the house in a diaper box and made each other laugh. Then, just as I was reaching down to pick him up and carry him to bed, the baby tripped over my foot and face-planted onto the laminate floor. He bit his lip. Blood everywhere. Took him a good twenty minutes to calm down.

My four-year-old rushed to the bathroom and brought back a handful of Band-Aids. He thinks Band-Aids solve everything. 

"I feel really, really bad for him," he said. "I feel so bad. If that was me, I would be very upset." 

His empathy came to him as a revelation.

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When you get to my door, tell 'em Boris sent you.

When you get to my door, tell 'em Boris sent you.

You wouldn't want them to eat you.

You wouldn't want them to eat you.