The other morning, I was digging around for something in the back of my closet when I found a framed photograph I’d stashed there in one of my fits of manic tidying.

So, you see, we had this baby. Life changed. I don’t mean to brag, but before the baby came, we were good—really good—at going out on dates with each other.

Lately, I've noticed an aspect of my parenting style that would probably elicit disapproval from child psychologists. While I'm almost always empathetic, usually firm and try very hard to be fair, I change my mind a lot.

I met a life coach a few years back who promised he’d help me “become more of who I was.” He said that as though it were a good thing. I’m not so sure.

When I was 32, three years into my blessedly peaceful second marriage, 16 months into the motherhood gig, five months pregnant with our second child, I sat on the floor of our New York apartment in stunned silence.