When did it become a rule that once a child turns a year old, giving them formula from a bottle is frowned upon? We recently celebrated our daughter's 1 year birthday. And before I even had time to absorb the fact that our baby is now a 1-year-old (I mean, where the hell did that first year go?), I was being encouraged to stop giving her the bottle. Immediately.

For real?

My little girl is no longer a baby. What? How can this be? It seems like just yesterday my doctor placed her in my arms, all 7 pounds, 9 ounces, and 21 inches of her ... born on an ordinary Thursday evening, 23 days early. 

And now, she's 1!

I can't have any more children. At least none that are biologically mine.

I'll never be pregnant again. 

A couple of weeks after our first child was born, I underwent a radical hysterectomy to remove cancer that was discovered at the time of my C-section. Having the surgery was a no brainer. It was a do it or die situation. I chose to fight to live, and that's what I'm going to continue to do for as long as I can.

But now that the cancer seems to be in remission, I'm noticing that I sometimes feel jealous around pregnant women.

My husband and daughter recently went to dinner with my parents to celebrate my 45th birthday. During the meal, something was jokingly said about how my father may disapprove of certain people our little girl might choose to date in the future.

My dad immediately jumped in and said, "Oh, no. Our little Maggie can be with whomever she likes, regardless of race or gender or profession. All that matters is that she's happy."

What the what?

Where was this open-minded, accepting guy when I was dating?

This is the same man who turned away boys who came to our door to pick me up for dates because their hair was too long or their car too souped up. The man who had a fit when I dated a boy with an earring or someone of a different ethnic background than mine.

And let's not even talk about the years after my divorce when I dated women. (That's a whole other story...)

I'm way better than I used to be -- both cancer and having a baby will do that to a person -- but the truth is that sometimes my “I Don’t Give A F*ck” doesn't work so well.

For as long as I can remember, I've been concerned about what others might think of me, at least to some degree. I can remember comparing myself to others as early as the second grade ... noticing that other girls were prettier or more popular or had nicer clothes. 

What I'd like to know is, how does this start, and how can I keep my daughter from feeling the need to compare herself to others? Or are we girls just genetically hardwired to care about what others think of us?

Now that my husband and I are parents, we can't imagine life without our little girl. It seems like this -- her being our daughter; us being her parents -- was always meant to be. And we simply adjusted our lives to fit this expansion of our family.

But this scenario didn't always seem so natural to us.

When my husband and I were pretty new in our relationship, I got pregnant. While on birth control pills. Yep, I was one of the 0.1 percent who got pregnant on the pill. And I freaked OUT. 

For the first time in my adult life, the results of the upcoming election could have a direct, very tangible impact on my family and me. And I’m concerned.

This year I underwent extensive cancer surgery, followed by 24 rounds of chemotherapy. If I had not been covered by good insurance (thanks to my employer), my treatment would have cost us well over a million dollars. It could have bankrupted our family if we had been expected to pay these costs ourselves.

I had another cancer scare this past week. A doozy. 

When I went for my first three-month cancer check, I learned that my CA-125 levels -- that's the cancer marker -- had quintupled since they were checked just three months prior. Not good.

My oncologist immediately ordered CT scans of my chest, abdomen, and pelvis. She said there was a chance that the spike in my levels was due to inflammation from a scar revision surgery I had six weeks earlier. The only other explanation was that the cancer was back. And we all knew what that meant.

If the cancer was back this soon after stopping treatment, it meant that it was platinum-resistant and that more chemotherapy would be ineffective. And radiation or surgery would not be options, given the type and location of my cancer.

Essentially, I'd be fucked.