I remember standing in my hallway circa 2005, staring at a puddle on the hardwood floor while my youngest—my son—proudly marched away wearing a plastic colander as a hat. He was three. My two daughters had been relatively “easy” breezy about the whole potty thing, but this boy? He had decided that the toilet was … Read more
I still remember a road trip we took when my youngest was three. We had snacks, juice boxes, a carefully packed bag of toys… and still, somewhere around the 45-minute mark, he looked at me and said, “Are we there yet?” on repeat like a broken record. If I could go back and tell my … Read more
I remember a Tuesday morning about twenty years ago. My son, who was just hitting that “I do it!” phase, decided that my morning coffee prep was a team sport. At the time, I had two older daughters already swirling around the kitchen, and the sheer volume of “help” I was receiving felt less like … Read more
I remember one afternoon when my youngest daughter, Emily, was barely four, she stomped her little feet, flung her arms wide, and screamed because she didn’t want to leave the playground. I was exhausted, my coffee had gone cold in my hand, and all I wanted was five minutes of peace. Yet, in that moment, … Read more
I remember a Tuesday afternoon about twenty years ago. My son was three, and my two daughters were just starting to find their footing in grade school. I was standing in the kitchen, probably nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee, when I heard that specific, hollow thwack followed by a jagged, high-pitched wail. I ran … Read more
I remember a specific Tuesday afternoon about twenty years ago. My middle daughter—who is now a brilliant, composed attorney, mind you—was exactly four years old. She wanted the blue cup. Not the teal one, not the navy one, and certainly not the “baby” cup with the plastic straw. The blue one. The problem? The blue … Read more
I remember a Tuesday afternoon about twenty years ago like it was yesterday. My son, who was three at the time, decided that the blue bowl—the one he’d used every single day for six months—was suddenly an instrument of psychological warfare. He didn’t just want the red bowl; he wanted the red bowl that was … Read more