On Thursday, my grandfather died.

He was 89. There was some Alzheimers — more on some days than on others — as well as the usual and not-entirely-gentle ravishes of aging. He moved slowly, forgot most things, recognized rarely, but he was happy. Happy to sit in his chair and stare at his wife of 65 years. Happy to eat pie for dinner. Happy to watch old movies. Happy, generally, to have earned the time to simply be happy and do nothing at all.

But behind the scenes — behind his simple happiness — was the typical maelstrom: the unraveling…


As a writer people are constantly praising me for the amazing job I must be doing writing things down.

It’s going to be so amazing for you when your son is grown and you’ve written down all of these memories.

Umm… errr… yeah. It’s going to be the tits when he gets ahold of my online presence around adolescence and realizes his mom is a hot mess who doesn’t have even the very slightest of clues how to raise a human and has spent the majority of her social currency screaming into the unknown about how hard it is.


Since the time my child was about two — which is when, for me, actual parenting started to happen — I’ve said the same thing. If the universe could do you a solid and just give you an envelope when your kid was born, everything would be so much simpler.

Not just an empty envelope, but one containing a small piece of paper with a single word written on it: yes or no. As in, Yes. Your child is a psycho/sociopath. Or No. Your child is just an asshole. Without this envelope, this little piece of personality insurance, my experience…


Sometimes we stop communicating because we have too much to say

Photo by Felipe P. Lima Rizo on Unsplash

Dear Husband,

This weekend we had an anniversary. Our 11th. To be fair, we got married so young that we should be having our fifth, but we did what we did and we had our 11th. We’ll be celebrating our 25th wedding anniversary before we’re fifty. We’ll likely be too young, too close to paying for an enormous college bill, to afford that giant new diamond ring I totally deserve, but it’s fine. Since we’ll be so damn young at our 50th, I’ll just ask for an obscene one then. …


I recently had to explain to my mother that dying, specifically dying when you want to, was a lot more complicated than having me (her daughter) smother her with a pillow when her faculties were gone.

It was Mother’s Day, so naturally our conversation drifted to her death and what role I would obviously play in it, when the time comes. “Well, Carolina, this seems very simple. When I become a burden– or foresee that I am going to become a burden– I will simply inject myself with something or have you give me a cocktail of something quick and…


I’ve said it before and I’m sure I’ll say it again many, many times, but we don’t spend nearly enough time telling people about the responsibility of raising humans. You get married, you’re happy (maybe), have more time and disposable income than you even realize (maybe), and then you get the baby itch (or society makes you feel like a wretched, selfish asshole and you cave) and a few months later, you are knocked up and wandering around Buy Buy Baby with a registry gun, arguing with your spouse about what kind of nipples you should register for.

Someone probably…


I cannot be clearer than this: three year olds are the worst.

The. Worst.

On the one hand, they are so cute. At three, you have a tiny person, wearing tiny adult clothes. They have these insanely observant, candid things to say. They make you laugh. You starting thinking things like, “obviously my kid is a mother fucking genius. he just figured out how to drain the tub.”

Then there’s the other hand. The torturous, deformed, hateful hand. You have an irrational, unthinking, selfish asshole with a seniority complex and zero regard for your life or feelings. And frankly, that’s…


I took a hiatus from Facebook and then the entire world went to shit. Like actually. I took a hiatus from Facebook to try to maintain my sanity and then Donald Fucking Trump got elected president. That actually happened. In some ways, Trump ruined my Facebook homecoming. I was going to be away for 60 days and then return to wanting fans and friends, drop some humor bomb about Hillary and pantsuits and my return to normalcy, and then continue with a life of subconscious, public narration. And the occasional joke. Because that’s my Facebook MO.

And then all this…


Have we discussed my crippling anxiety before? We have? Weird. Don’t know why it would have come up. Oh, yes I do. BECAUSE I’M BARELY ABLE TO MAKE IT THROUGH THE DAY WITHOUT IMAGINING 100000000 HORRIFYING SCENARIOS UNFOLDING AND RUINING ALL THE THINGS.

But seriously. As I’ve gotten older, and become a parent, my anxiety has reached a fever pitch. Since the husband has assumed the role of helicopter parent (a badge he wears with honor), it’s my duty to assume to role of chill parent who is totally not freaking out on the inside every fucking second. On the…


Ten years ago today, we got married. I was twenty-two.

Here’s the thing about being twenty-two: you don’t know anything. For all the pain you may have suffered (real and imagined), life experiences you’ve had, foods you’ve eaten, problems you’ve solved, fundamentally you don’t know anything. You may have theories, but you don’t have knowledge. Because you simply haven’t been here long enough. (And before we gather our pitch forks and start being mean to me, let’s take a step back. I value twenty-two year olds and think they offer a lot of enthusiasm and perspective. …

caroline beaulieu

writer + girl + thinker + wife + mups + employee + human + blogger at halftruthofawholelife.com

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