Magazine

Dear Marcus from six months ago, I'm currently sitting on the floor of the laundry room staring at a 75% surface-area coverage stain on a 100% cashmere infant romper. It's 3:14 AM. The dog is hiding under the sofa because...

I was thirty-four weeks pregnant, sweating through a maternity dress in a stuffy Chicago living room, watching my auntie aggressively hand out neon pink loofahs to women in their mid-thirties. The air was thick with the smell of catered samosas...

I'm currently sitting on my living room floor peeling dried hot glue off my thumb, trying to make a makeshift diaper cake look less like a leaning tower of trash, and thinking about the sheer amount of money I wasted...

I'm sitting on a terribly uncomfortable velvet pouf in a semi-detached house in Richmond, watching my wife—who's thirty-four weeks pregnant with twins and currently harboring the pelvic stability of a Jenga tower in an earthquake—pretend she enjoys sniffing a nappy...