Magazine

I was twenty-four weeks pregnant, sitting in the sweltering heat of my Ford F-150 outside a suburban strip mall, ugly crying into a half-eaten sleeve of saltines. It was July in Texas, my ankles had officially merged with my calves,...

When I was eight months pregnant with my oldest—the child who's now officially my daily cautionary tale—I got three distinct pieces of advice in the span of one afternoon. The lady at the post office told me boys are emotionally...

You're currently standing on Oak Street Beach. You're sweating through your linen button-down. Your three-month-old is screaming a pitch usually reserved for the NICU triage desk. And that expensive white eyelet romper you bought? It's covered in seagull droppings, damp...

I was standing next to a kiddie pool in my sister-in-law’s backyard, sweat pooling entirely too fast in my nursing bra, staring down at my firstborn son who looked like a boiled hot dog. It was the Fourth of July...

It was exactly 3:14 AM on a Tuesday, and I was standing in the dark kitchen in a pair of stained maternity leggings that I had supposedly retired three weeks prior, just staring at my newborn son. Leo was three...