I was 15 days postpartum and an hour away from meeting up with a friend for the first time since having my son when I felt the panic rising inside me.  “I have nothing to wear,” I told my husband as I held back tears, frantically searching my unorganized closet for anything other than one of my husband’s oversized t-shirts. 

I’d like to tell my dad that there are really two definitions of a father. There is a father: a biological, DNA-dictated parent of a child.  And then, on the other hand, there is a dad: someone who drives you home after your tonsils are taken out, one hand on the steering wheel and the other rubbing your back as

When I was newly pregnant with my first child, a colleague of mine had just returned to work from maternity leave. I got an email from her requesting that I cover the last 30 minutes of one of her classes that coincided with my planning period for the remainder of the school year so that she could go to the

By the time I got those two pink lines on a stick last summer, my daughter had already been asking us for a sibling for years. My first thought (after, of course, “Holy cow, is this really happening?”) was, “My baby is about to become a big sister.” Even now, at 8-months-pregnant, her elation has not died down. If anything,

“I think it went really well!” I told my husband excitedly as I wiggled out of my blazer, which was now definitely too snug on my third-trimester body.  “Did they say when to expect a call back?” he asked, with noticeable caution in his voice. We had been having this conversation for months already. It would start with me excitedly