I've been through this twice before, and yet something feels so different this time—like we're experiencing every milestone at warp speed.
My baby and I already had a higher chance of dying during delivery, but when my labour failed to progress and my fear turned to panic, only one person in the room could help: the one who looked like me.
I thought we'd get a sweet "first haircut" memory for the baby book, but it was derailed by systemic racism.
“Mommy, you’re honey. Daddy, you’re vanilla. And I’m café au lait.”
Had I waited too long for a second child within the much-desired two-year gap? Had I robbed my soon-to-be six-year-old son of the closeness of childhood siblinghood?