This piece is a meditation on the hours following her daughter’s bedtime. While most parenting content celebrates “me time,” Alison explores the eerie silence as a symptom of dissociation. She writes: “Now that the noise has stopped, I can hear the ringing in my ears. That ringing has a name, and its name is before .” She alludes to a traumatic birth without explicitly describing it, using the child’s absence (asleep) to revisit the trauma of the child’s arrival. It is a masterclass in implication, trusting the reader to fill in the gaps.
In the golden age of mommy blogging (circa 2012-2018), two types of narratives dominated the landscape: the saccharine, sponsored post about organic baby food, and the snarky, wine-soaked listicle about surviving a toddler’s tantrum. Then came Mutha Magazine . Founded by the sharp and unflinching Amy Pho, Mutha rejected both archetypes. It was literary, confrontational, and deeply empathetic to the chaos of caregiving. Among its most compelling contributors were two women sharing a nearly identical first name: Allison and Alison .
Together, they form a diptych: one written in ink, one in breath. Both are essential. Both are muthas. To read their original work, visit the Mutha Magazine archives via the Wayback Machine. Search for “Allison” and “Alison” — and bring a cup of coffee, a box of tissues, and zero judgment.
If you read Allison, you learn to map your chaos. If you read Alison, you learn to sit inside it.
Here, Allison tackles the performative nature of playground politics. She recounts “auditioning” for a playgroup of wealthy stay-at-home mothers, detailing the code-switching required to be accepted. She notes the way her voice rises an octave, the way she hides the Target logo on her diaper bag. The article is devastating because it never villainizes the other mothers. Instead, Allison concludes that “we are all just women terrified of doing it alone.” This piece cemented her role as the publication’s anthropologist—watching, noting, and reporting back from the weird, ritualistic tribe of modern parenthood.
Neither writer ever says, “But I wouldn’t trade it for the world.” That qualifier is absent. They allow the bad, the ugly, and the boring to exist without a silver lining.
This piece is a meditation on the hours following her daughter’s bedtime. While most parenting content celebrates “me time,” Alison explores the eerie silence as a symptom of dissociation. She writes: “Now that the noise has stopped, I can hear the ringing in my ears. That ringing has a name, and its name is before .” She alludes to a traumatic birth without explicitly describing it, using the child’s absence (asleep) to revisit the trauma of the child’s arrival. It is a masterclass in implication, trusting the reader to fill in the gaps.
In the golden age of mommy blogging (circa 2012-2018), two types of narratives dominated the landscape: the saccharine, sponsored post about organic baby food, and the snarky, wine-soaked listicle about surviving a toddler’s tantrum. Then came Mutha Magazine . Founded by the sharp and unflinching Amy Pho, Mutha rejected both archetypes. It was literary, confrontational, and deeply empathetic to the chaos of caregiving. Among its most compelling contributors were two women sharing a nearly identical first name: Allison and Alison . mutha magazine articles written by allison or alison
Together, they form a diptych: one written in ink, one in breath. Both are essential. Both are muthas. To read their original work, visit the Mutha Magazine archives via the Wayback Machine. Search for “Allison” and “Alison” — and bring a cup of coffee, a box of tissues, and zero judgment. This piece is a meditation on the hours
If you read Allison, you learn to map your chaos. If you read Alison, you learn to sit inside it. That ringing has a name, and its name is before
Here, Allison tackles the performative nature of playground politics. She recounts “auditioning” for a playgroup of wealthy stay-at-home mothers, detailing the code-switching required to be accepted. She notes the way her voice rises an octave, the way she hides the Target logo on her diaper bag. The article is devastating because it never villainizes the other mothers. Instead, Allison concludes that “we are all just women terrified of doing it alone.” This piece cemented her role as the publication’s anthropologist—watching, noting, and reporting back from the weird, ritualistic tribe of modern parenthood.
Neither writer ever says, “But I wouldn’t trade it for the world.” That qualifier is absent. They allow the bad, the ugly, and the boring to exist without a silver lining.