Magazine

My oldest son, Beau, was standing in the bathroom hallway clutching a dirty sneaker lace, and I swear my soul left my body for a solid three seconds. I was elbow-deep in packing tape, desperately trying to box up orders...

I'm lying flat on the faux-sheepskin rug of our nursery at 3:14 a.m., my face hovering uncomfortably close to Florence’s nose, aggressively humming a 2011 pop-rock anthem. I've been trying to get her to acknowledge my existence for forty-five minutes....

It's 3 AM in Chicago. The radiator in my pre-war apartment is clanking like a percussion section, the snow is piling up against the window, and my kid has been cluster feeding for what feels like three consecutive lunar cycles....

Tuesday, 6:14 AM. The sun hasn't quite breached the London skyline, but my flat is already the site of a hostile corporate takeover. Clementine is standing in her cot, holding a soggy rice cake like a gavel, demanding that I...