Jill Robbins

Content Notice: rape, sexual assault

My rape was 20 years ago and I still need a trigger warning for Brock Turner.

My family stands out. My kids are Asian, my husband and I are white. Most people will (correctly) assume our children are adopted.

I went to the premiere of Bad Moms last week. I might have peed my pants during the movie and it took about two days until my face stopped hurting. I don’t remember the last time I laughed so hard. (Okay, fine. There’s no “might have.” I did pee my pants. So what?)

I remember the day I met my son for the first time as if it was yesterday, instead of almost five years ago.

...[I]f you think it’s a good idea to take a selfie with your gallon jug of Golytely and post it on social media with a “guess what I’m doing” caption, you might want to tell your mom why you’re having a colonoscopy so she doesn’t assume the worst. Ask me how I know.

Halloween makes parents want to hit the sauce and not always in an I’m feeling frightfully festive; let’s drink wine from our spooky glasses an

Life is pretty normal now — whatever that means — but I’ll always look back on our first few weeks home with our newly-adopted kids and compare it to surviving some kind of parenting boot camp or extended sorority hell week.

When a parent has a really bad day or when there are too many kinda-sorta bad days strung too close together, it wears you down. It’s deflating. Patience? What’s that? Your threshold for losing your crap pretty much does not exist.