I’ve got a soft spot in my soul for new mothers, the first-time kind. The bewildered, shaky, anxious-ridden variety who keep one vigilant eye on the clock (when did the baby last feed?) and one distracted eye on the conversation at hand (sorry, what was that?). The ones who fear the nail clippers. The ones
“Put the baby in the center of the bed. Go outside; take five deep breaths. Come back.” This is the advice my midwife offers me as a 3-day old mother, the orders she gives after hearing my tears over the phone, the baby’s shrieks, the panic in my voice. My confidence in motherhood silenced by
2am, the alarm rings. When you’ve got yourself a baby with boundless energy and a little girl with endless questions, 2am is sometimes your magic hour of silence, of writing, of work. While the two littles are tucked safely in their beds, I pad into the dining room for cinnamon tea and words. It is,
Yesterday. You know how your day can take an utter turn south, just like that? Like, the simplest thing becomes the not-so-simplest thing and suddenly you find yourself in a parked car tearing up in front of your bewildered kids, searching for a crinkled napkin in the glove compartment, mentally reminding yourself “You’re the grownup
My mother is forever retelling a story of her endless sartorial regret one Sunday morning as my pastor lifted my 2-year-old self up for a hug to find that I was wearing approximately zero garments under my vacuous tulle skirt. (It would be a few years before she would buckle again under my insistence that
Last week, a girlfriend sent over a link to this illustration, and it hasn’t fully left my mind since. I’ve always been a firm believer in raising a child with character over compliance, someone who isn’t afraid to buck the system in a thoughtful, kind manner. So of course the idea of children’s agency hits
Something thoughtful for the week ahead. — Marie Howe, “Hurry” We stop at the dry cleaners and the grocery store and the gas station and the green market and Hurry up honey, I say, hurry, as she runs along two or three steps behind me her blue jacket unzipped and her socks rolled down. Where
One of my oft-asked questions about Scout’s adoption is this: How did you prepare Bee? The answer is layered, of course. Buckle up, if you’re of the curious type. — I will first offer the ubiquitous disclaimer that having children does not make me, by any stretch, a parenting expert. I know very little about