Jill Robbins

I went to the premiere of Bad Moms last week. I might have peed my pants during the movie and it took about two days until my face stopped hurting. I don’t remember the last time I laughed so hard. (Okay, fine. There’s no “might have.” I did pee my pants. So what?)

Life is pretty normal now — whatever that means — but I’ll always look back on our first few weeks home with our newly-adopted kids and compare it to surviving some kind of parenting boot camp or extended sorority hell week.

Halloween makes parents want to hit the sauce and not always in an I’m feeling frightfully festive; let’s drink wine from our spooky glasses an

I remember the day I met my son for the first time as if it was yesterday, instead of almost five years ago.

...[I]f you think it’s a good idea to take a selfie with your gallon jug of Golytely and post it on social media with a “guess what I’m doing” caption, you might want to tell your mom why you’re having a colonoscopy so she doesn’t assume the worst. Ask me how I know.

When a parent has a really bad day or when there are too many kinda-sorta bad days strung too close together, it wears you down. It’s deflating. Patience? What’s that? Your threshold for losing your crap pretty much does not exist.

Content Notice: rape, sexual assault

My rape was 20 years ago and I still need a trigger warning for Brock Turner.

My family stands out. My kids are Asian, my husband and I are white. Most people will (correctly) assume our children are adopted.