Kelly Burch

Just like kids who kick the seat in front of them and middle-aged women who get drunk and chatty on long flights, crying babies are a fact of life.

Last week, I did something reckless. I went out for Mexican food, and drank a margarita. The server didn’t ask for my ID, and she didn’t even ask for proof that my ovaries were on lock down.

Last week, as the U.S.

“Sleep when the baby sleeps” is the cruelest thing you can say to a new parent. It sounds oh-so-simple, doesn’t it? Just like my sleep advice sounded all those years ago, before I knew the harsh reality of parenting. It’s impossible to sleep when the baby sleeps if the baby is only down for 10 minutes at a time!

I’ve been waiting years to celebrate my undying love of all things Christmas with my child, but now that my toddler is old enough to understand the joys of the holiday season I’ve realized that there are some things about the holidays that only a parent can understand.

I’m one of those bigger girls that confuses the medical community by being entirely healthy. My doctor body shamed me and lied to me about tests she ran.

Someone yelled out a racist comment, and Trump said, “Hey, I can’t say it, but he can.”

As my own home ownership dreams were delayed, I was able to look back on my parents’ decision to rent with a lot more understanding. My parents sometimes struggled to keep the electricity on, but they always made sure that the rent was paid, and that my siblings and me had a wonderful home, no matter whose name was on the deed.

My daughter nursed (and was supplemented with formula, then milk) for 18 months, and when we weaned, it was because we were ready. After that first bottle, I should have realized that supplementing was great for both me and my daughter.

Posting about my miscarriage on Facebook was the most cathartic thing I could have done for myself. It allowed me to validate my feelings.