motherhood

We can keep the diet talk, the self-criticism, the weight loss rhetoric, and the calorie-counting out of the house, but we can’t keep it out of everywhere else. So, raising a daughter scares the shit out of me.

These are the things I anticipate most when my kids finally go the eff to sleep. I deserve it after a day of being in what feels like survival mode.

For queer parents like me, meanwhile — although I know that my whiteness and my class affords me a degree of protection from scrutiny and interference — the threat of being deemed an illegitimate parent also serves to silence any discussion of mixed feelings.

I have a confession to make: I am not a mess. As a mom, this is apparently unusual.

I think we both sleep a little sounder curled up with each other. And as annoying and cliché as it sounds, it really won't last forever.

I love watching my son and my husband bond, but it’s becoming apparent I’m losing my little boy.

Your meltdowns never made any damn sense. They were the product of your immature squirrel brain. My mama freakouts, on the other hand, make hella sense.

When you sign up to shuttle a collection of teen males, it is difficult to anticipate the consequences of the covenant you have blindly entered.