“I’m thirty-eight years old!” said Homer Simpson. “This is bullshit!” said I.
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I spent months pouring over parenting and newborn books while pregnant with my first born. I was particularly obsessed with how-to breastfeeding manuals.
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I grew up in the late-1990s and early 2000s, when the culture of thin bodies with smooth skin was the beauty standard.
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Are there two words that strike as much fear and panic into a work-at-home-parent (WAHP) as “snow day?” Yes, actually.
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Lately, I’ve been slacking on reading. I find the commitment of a novel daunting when added to all of the reading I need to do for work.
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Twice last month, I was called fat as an insult out of the blue by grown adults.
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