I hated when my mother would talk about me to her friends when I was a kid. Hated it. Even the most bland of stories, like, say, that I was playing little league again that spring would infuriate me. And I know she shared way more about me than my pre-teen baseball career to her friends and family. Hated it. As if she knew anything about me whatsoever. As if my challenges and wins and all-inclusive experiences—as if my life—were her story to tell.

Whenever I left her in another’s care I was weighted down with excessive guilt because I know the pain this kid can unleash. But she only does it to me. And I couldn’t stop wondering why?

Mommy shaming. That’s why.

John McCain was a genius. And he was loyal to his party. So much so that he died the same day as the Jacksonville shooting so we’d talk about his death instead of gun control. Genius.