Magazine

I'm currently staring at a pile of exactly fourteen orphan pieces of miniature footwear on my living room rug. My son is eleven months old, which means we've dropped roughly 1.2 items from our inventory every single week since we...

There I was, standing in the vestibule of St. Jude’s Catholic Church at exactly 1:42 PM on a sweltering Saturday in May, trying to peel a 100% rigid polyester jacket off my screaming eighteen-month-old son, Leo. My own dress—some floral...

It was 2:14 AM. The baby monitor was glowing with that sinister green night-vision hue that makes my eleven-month-old look like a paranormal entity trapped in a crib. My phone vibrated on the nightstand, blinding me with the lock screen....

I was thirty-eight weeks pregnant, standing in a freezing Chicago parking lot, violently arguing with my mother on speakerphone about wool. She was convinced my unborn beta would instantly freeze to death the moment we left the maternity ward unless...