My son once cried — actual tears — because I turned off the same 90-second clip of a garbage truck for the eleventh time in a row. It was 5:10 p.m. The chicken was still frozen. I remember standing at the counter thinking, I have a graduate degree and I cannot get through the next
My youngest turned six months old on a Tuesday, and by Thursday I had a high chair, a bib shaped like a strawberry, and a container of mashed banana I’d made with entirely too much ceremony. She looked at the spoon, looked at me, and turned her head so fast I nearly got banana on
Somewhere around mile 200 on I-80, my youngest lost it. Not fussy-cry, but the full-body, red-faced, “I have rejected this car seat and everything it stands for” scream. We still had four hours to go. My husband looked at me like what do we do, and I remember thinking, with total clarity, that no blog
I remember standing in my kitchen at 2:14 in the morning — I checked the clock, that’s how I know the exact time — bouncing my son while he gnawed on my collarbone like it owed him money. My shirt was soaked through with drool. I had a browser tab open titled “is teething actually
My daughter’s first pool trip lasted exactly four minutes before she lost it — full-body screaming, the kind where other people at the pool start looking around for whoever’s hurting a child. Then, weirdly, she went quiet, looked down at the water around her belly, and smacked it with both hands like she’d invented percussion.
I’m going to be honest about something most parenting posts skip over: for the first few weeks of daycare, I was bad at this. Like, genuinely bad. I thought I could wing it the way I winged everything else with my first kid. Turns out drop-off doesn’t reward winging it. It rewards boring, repetitive, slightly
