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Somewhere, at some point, a woman sat connected to a pump and had gotten more than her baby could eat. Her lactation donation helped my preemie.

He was already in his sophomore year, the tears surprised me. He’s been busy growing up at college. Without me. And he’s doing a damn good job of it.

Last minute playdate with a sancti-mommy? Surprise visit from your mother-in-law? Never fear. SLACKERMOM knows just what to do.

I’ve dropped the weight. My belly looks lumpy and is the antithesis of flat. But I’ve dropped the weight that matters.

Parenting a child with hemophilia means learning how to separate fear from love; they are so intimately bound together in a parent’s heart.

It’s my turn…but somehow I can’t get over my body. Does he notice?

The first day of school would inevitably include the correction of my name in the vast majority of rolls called. It’s not “Rhianna” or “Rhiawwna.” I don’t know why people seem to assume the “n” is silent.

I take issue with the ‘modesty’ pads in sports bras. You know—those pads that sometimes are removable and keep the world at large from knowing when you’re cold.

You know that feeling when you wake up like a shot, mind alert, heart pounding? It’s anxiety.

I don’t care if my kids swear. I do care if you’re judging me for it.