The collaborative effort of thirty-four zine-making parents, this fourth issue of Mamaphiles takes on the wilder side of parenthood – from toddler-chasing to rabble-rousing. “Children are natural born hell-raisers,” wrote Henry Miller. And as Mamaphiles' writers can attest, raising them can be an act of revolution.

Corbin Lewars’ Creating a Life is about many things: surviving a miscarriage, confronting long-forgotten memories of rape, conceiving and seeing a second pregnancy to term, and eventually delivering a son, at home, and fulfilling her wish of becoming a mother and writer. But Corbin’s story is about more than overcoming her past and achieving the tangible milestones of pregnancy and new motherhood. It is about a women finding her own voice and gaining the strength to trust her feelings, instincts, and desires. And through learning to believe in herself, she gains the courage to become both a mother and a writer -- on her own terms.

Sixteen dancers come on stage carrying gold canes and arrayed in reds, blues, purples and pinks with jingling coin hip scarfs. They are all races, shapes and sizes, but they are not all ages: the oldest is eleven and the youngest is four. This is Happy Hips Youth Oriental Dance Troupe, veteran belly dancers who have performed at benefits, museums and festivals as well as local and regional haflas, the term for belly dance parties or shows.

Happy Hips founder, Terri Allred did not set out to become Sadiya, professional belly dancer and instructor. At Vanderbilt University, she completed a theological studies masters in feminist theology with a focus on how people who experience trauma interpret it and give it meaning. Terri ran rape crisis centers and lectured internationally on the relationship between sexual violence and belief systems.

About four in the afternoon, my friend and I were at a bar playing with these little plastic toys left in a basket for drunk kids like us. She had set up a wall of fencing with soldiers and cowboys, defending it from my wall of teepees and Indians that pointed their little bows and arrows at the guns. My toy horse was adorned with a hot pink cocktail umbrella.

It was Sunday and I was spending it doing what I always did - Bloody Mary's over Brunch, shopping at consignment stores, and happy hour. I loved life as a cocktail waitress, a life of 5am bedtimes and tequila and bar-hopping fun. I loved it, but all this was about to change. With bourbon in hand, I laid out my plans for the future.

Not long ago, I stripped Miriam of her jammies and reached for her shirt and pants combo of the day. "No," she said, waving away my hand. "Wear dress."

"No," I replied, "today we're wearing these." (It's an unfortunate but unavoidable fact that most moms refer to their children as we. Thus the inevitable stress when our children show any signs of independence. I wish I were speaking to my mother so I could apologize to her for this, but I'm not, for myriad reasons that could probably be boiled down to my need for independence from her. Gotta love that feedback loop.)

"No," Miriam growled. "Wear dress. WEAR DRESS!"

I suspected this day would come.

May 26, 1948- July 2, 2009

There's a kaleidoscope in the conservatory where I've stopped with my daughters. There's a circular bed of sand with sticks and rocks, and above, the lenses and mirrors. We shift the sand around and look, and each time the picture is different. If you look deep inside a kaleidoscope, what you see is the ocean of patterns of light, surrounded by a rim of darkness, curving away like night falling.

Trying to write about Bonnie Tinker is kind of like this. The ways in which Bonnie touched people's lives are complex, shifting and beautiful.