
Food Might Be My Son’s Kryptonite
Even with sensory processing disorder, my son is mostly a typically weird and weirdly typical kid. Except for food. It might be his kryptonite.

Even with sensory processing disorder, my son is mostly a typically weird and weirdly typical kid. Except for food. It might be his kryptonite.

Mid-divorce or post-divorce life with your ex doesn’t have to be ugly. This May, as I married my husband, my ex was had a front row seat.

Every new parent goes through that phase when marriage inadvertently crawls to sulk in a dark corner of the basement, hidden by cobwebs, grieving alone.

Putting on that bathing suit was a BIG deal for me and my girls’ reactions made an impact. What they think matters more than anything.

I graduated high school with a ton of bad advice on establishing a credit rating and almost no concept of financial planning beyond “How to Operate a Savings Account.” I don’t want my kids to do that.

There is a height chart on the wall reminding me that I didn’t do the “parenting thing” I planned to do.

I stood among the rubble after a particularly bad explosion and screamed in my head, “HOW MUCH LONGER DO I HAVE TO PUT UP WITH THIS?”

I thought that as an adult, I was done with panic attacks. I was cocky, hadn’t had one in years, I was so obviously over them. But when your life is somehow upended, the dormant ways float back to the surface.

I started wondering about the accountability of personal trainers. What if I didn’t tell Tim about my health, followed his diet, and wound up in the hospital?

“So is motherhood worth it?” asks my colleague somewhat skeptically from across the cafeteria table.




















