You do more pretend cooking in a miniature kitchen than you do actual cooking in the full-sized one (and frankly, you're not sure which meals taste better).

At about 2 ½, M was diagnosed with Sensory Processing Disorder. From that point on, it was an emotional roller coaster filled with ups and downs, different doctors, confusing information, conflicting info from school and of course way too much Googling by Mom.

If this tiny, guileless thought could make me feel so great, why can't we train our children to say things that will make us feel hipper, younger and smarter?

It's sleepaway camp season and everyone is getting their calls from the kiddos. I've found a pattern: I desperately want to strangle my husband after each call.

Sending the kids to camp is supposed to be this delightfully awesome time of freedom and reprieve, but it's not for me.

At a baseball game recently, a mom friend and I were having a bout of witty banter that went terribly, horribly, irrefutably awry.

I had just discovered I was pregnant with my first child. Most women in my shoes would be making lists of names, mentally designing the nursery or simply immersing themselves in baby bliss. I was reveling because I could finally eat whatever the hell I wanted.