Writing — Shelley Mann Hite

Shelley Mann Hite is a former journalist now finding her own voice and telling her own stories as a creative writer. She writes about motherhood, food, sobriety, and the Midwest. Her work can be found in The Rumpus, Motherwell, Stonecrop Review, and Huffington Post. Find her on Twitter and Instagram at @shelleymann.

Voices on Addiction: Want to Believe

I took a breath, tugged one last time at my bathing suit, and jumped. The water was icy, an electrical shock prodding my body. All my nerve endings lit up simultaneously, my neural pathways glowed. I could not make my lungs take in a breath, even for a few seconds after my head popped up above the surface. The hangover throbbing in my head was zapped free and I felt awake, alive, amazed.

I Drank Like They Did on Mad Men. It Nearly Destroyed Me.

"Whenever I started to wonder if I had a drinking problem, all I had to do was look around and see a bar full of people keeping up with me drink for drink. This is normal."

A Field Guide to Ohio Wildflowers

When I think about lace, I think about weddings. I think about the veil I wore the first time I got married, speckled with tiny pearls to match my gown. I think of that dress’s lace sleeves, straight from a Renaissance painting. It was the kind of dress I thought a bride should wear. I think of how, in the dressing room mirror, it felt romantic, but in the pictures it looked more like something from a Renaissance fair. I think of the doilies my ex-husband’s grandma placed on every flat surface. I think about how I was telling the truth when I said I wanted to grow old with him, and how it’s just as truthful now that I’d be fine never seeing him again.

Pretzel Person

By Shelley Mann Hite

I was hoisting up the dumpster lid, a bag of garbage dangling over my shoulder, a ring of perspiration circling my forehead, when I spotted him out of the corner of my eye. Ben.

“I didn’t know you worked at the mall!” he said.

This One Tiny Change Made My Daughter’s Pandemic Birthday Extra Fun

By Shelley Mann Hite

Staring down a pandemic summer without a single playdate or vacation, our youngest started clinging to the one thing she could look forward to — her August birthday. She was so excited to turn 4, we had to start a countdown calendar a month and a half out, marking off each of the 48 days until the big day. So the pressure was on to think of a safe celebration that would live up to all that pent-up anticipation.

Struggling to create a new life after my divorce

By Shelley Mann Hite

My daughter was approaching her fourth birthday when we moved in with Pete, the first guy I seriously dated after her dad and I split. I had one rule back then: I didn’t drink on the nights she stayed with us.

.We rented half a duplex with fantastic highway views and, steps beyond a white picket fence, an Italian cafe where a backyard should have been. For a moment in time, the cafe hired a real chef and offered a dinner menu on Friday and Saturday nights, and that moment coincided with us living there.

We had Stella every Friday night, and walking over for dinner became our ritual. Besides proximity, the real draw was the cafe had a BYOB policy. Quickly, I amended my own rule. I didn’t drink on any of the nights she stayed with us besides Friday.

Book of Lasts

By Shelley Mann Hite

In my girls’ baby books, I dutifully filled in all of the exact dates I could remember for their “firsts”— first time rolling over, first step, first word, first time using full sentences. Over the years, in my head, I fill out a corresponding book of “lasts.” Last diaper changed. Last pacifier used. Last tooth lost.

I can remember, for instance, the last time I picked up my oldest daughter. She was 8, dressed head to toe in pink for her class Valentine’s Day party. She’d had a constant cough for weeks, but hadn’t run a temperature and had never asked to stay home from school. After school that day, though, she was reading in her bed when she suddenly started sobbing. Her cries pierced through the silence like a siren, warning of a thunderstorm that materialized out of nowhere.

“I can’t breathe!” she cried, clutching her chest.

Learning As You Go: Mom Knows Best

By Shelley Mann Hite

Motherhood has taught me that no one really knows what they’re doing. Our parents didn’t know. Your pediatrician doesn’t always know. The expert who wrote a book on the topic doesn’t know. All those other moms posting on the parenting forums? They definitely don’t know.

As much as you want someone to tell you what to do, to reassure you you’re doing this right, no one can tell you that for sure. I learned this quickly with my first child. My oldest was born without incident, but when we brought her home she wouldn’t eat. I took her to the pediatrician four times in her first two weeks. They thought she might have reflux. Then, they thought she might be allergic to something. For months, my mom insisted she was probably allergic to milk.

Eater/ Columbus Ohio Heat Map: Where to Eat Now

"The vintage 1920s speakeasy attached to an outrageously popular artisan pizza restaurant has been open for just over a year, but it’s still the hottest place to grab a drink thanks to national attention for bartender Travis Owens’ clever artisanal cocktails. Silly names belie the sophistication of creations like the mezcal-based Poblano Escobar, spiked with spicy poblanos."