I was recently gratified to learn of a survey of American mothers concluding that three is the most stressful number of children for a woman to have. Discovering this pleased me since my husband and I have three young kids, twin 6-year-olds and a 2-year-old, and we often feel harried by the relentlessness of parenting them. After reading the stories—to which, incidentally, several friends and my brother sent me links—I realized we were not alone in sensing that we were outnumbered and…

This afternoon, I carried a small handful of cookies into the yard, one—well, maybe two—for me and one for each of my three kids.

“Ooo!” squealed my 6-year-old son. “How many? How many?”

“When someone brings you a treat, you don’t say, ‘How many’!” I scolded. “You say, ‘Thank you.’”

“Thank you!” cried Griffin, grabbing his cookie and loping off across the grass.

As I watched him go, I found myself worrying that he might turn into “that guy”: the one avidly pumping…

Last night I met up with some ladies for drinks and weary of confronting what ails the world—the crisis in Syria, the monster in Cleveland, the Mother’s Day shooting in New Orleans—we opted instead for sharing some essentials within our reach.

First came a primer on bikini waxes. One of our cohort had recently visited the aesthetician she regularly sees, and so she reasonably assumed that the practitioner had examined her file before setting to work on her undergrowth. But when my…

I bumped into a friend this morning who said her husband surprised her yesterday with breakfast in bed, the Belgian waffle topped with a dollop of fresh whipped cream, chocolate sprinkles adorning the crown. “Where did you get this?” she demanded. “Did you go to a restaurant? Did you leave the children alone?” She harassed him until her husband admitted he’d cut a deal with the new neighbor, who also happened to be a chef.

I was happy to report that I, too, had breakfasted in bed, my…