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The first time someone suggested our daughter's mouth was structurally defective, we were sitting in a sweltering hospital side-room smelling faintly of industrial bleach and desperation. We received exactly three pieces of conflicting advice within a single twenty-four-hour period, which...

Dear Marcus from six months ago. You're currently standing barefoot on the cold hardwood floor of the nursery at 3:17 AM. You're holding a sticky plastic syringe filled with an unnervingly bright purple liquid. Your wife is gently rocking a...

It was 3:14 AM on a Tuesday in 2017, and I was standing in my kitchen wearing a pair of maternity leggings that smelled distinctly of sour milk and sheer desperation. I was running on roughly forty-five minutes of fragmented...

It was 2:14 in the morning on a Tuesday in late January. Outside our Chicago apartment, the wind chill was hovering around zero. Inside, our ancient radiators were blasting dry, punishing heat into the nursery. My toddler sounded like a...

I was standing in my cramped Chicago bathroom at eight in the evening with a slippery, shrieking newborn who looked exactly like a wet baby bat. My mother-in-law was on FaceTime, loudly explaining that he needed this nightly ritual to...

It was 2:14 in the morning on a Tuesday. Or maybe Wednesday? Time doesn't actually exist when you've an eleven-month-old who treats sleep like a hostile negotiation. I was sitting on the floor of Maya's nursery, wearing Dave's grey zip-up...