When can I stop worrying that one (or, dear god, both) of my children could grow up to be a psychopath even though both are so sweet and seemingly normal now? Every time I start to relax, I think about all of the documentaries in which the mother of a serial killer says, “He was such a happy baby.”

Is anyone else incapable of liking Greta Gerwig due to a fierce sense of loyalty to Jennifer Jason Leigh?

“How does a bastard, orphan, son of a whore…” Oops, sorry – just listening to Hamilton again.

Part B: How is Lin-Manuel Miranda’s wife handling his super-stardom? Does it ever wear on her?

How did I get so lucky to have two excellent children (who don’t seem to be on track to become serial killers), and how can I bear the angst that comes with loving the little buggers so much?

Should I wear a romper?

When the time comes, how will I ever let my kids drive a car – or worse, get into a car driven by one of their harebrained teenage friends? How did I survive my adolescence? How will I survive theirs??

Can we stop publishing articles that proclaim “You’re doing X wrong”? And while we’re at it, can we please have a moratorium on any piece of writing that riffs on the opening line of Pride and Prejudice? (It is a truth universally acknowledged that Jane Austen has been through enough.)

Why does the baby inevitably have an enormous bowel movement just as we are about to leave the house?

Isn’t it about time that Robert Smith tried a different hairstyle?

What’s the difference between a Demi Lovato and a Selena Gomez?

Should I be grossed out by the community pool?

Can you see my mustache in this light?

Is it time for bed yet?