Well, here’s a question I’m asked near-weekly: How do you navigate the balance between your child’s privacy and sharing your perspective of motherhood? And how do I? How should we? What about the kids? It’s my favorite question. I love it for a slew of reasons. I love it because we’re being mindful. I love
When Bee was a baby, I’d sit down during her naps and write long-winded letters to her: personality peeks, successful milestones, my own parenting fears/doubts/triumphs. It was a beautiful practice, and I always imagined bundling them up to offer her on the day she’d perhaps decide to become a parent, too. But as she grew
I’ve been trying not to shoo her out of the kitchen. I’ve been trying to see meal prep as a learning experience, as an opportunity to teach her the beauty of nourishing others – both their hearts and their bellies. But then I glance at her hair in the egg yolk and see the raw
Toddler books. Some of them are nuts, Amen? Just yesterday, I plucked a ripe one from the yellowed oak library shelf and I flipped through the first few pages, then a few more, then finally the end and I still have no earthly intimation of the plot. There was a dinosaur and a cherry pie,
Do I fight with my spouse? You bet I do. — I used to freak out, quietly, in my own mind, when Ken and I would disagree over parenting. It was more important to me that we were united than right, so with every minor disagreement, I’d settle for a compromise. He’d “win,” and I’d
She wants a treat when we visit the coffee shop. On pointed toes, eyes stretched atop the counter. “Breakfast bar, please.” I won’t always say yes to a breakfast bar, I say. I know, she says. I do. I always say yes to a breakfast bar. — I am crying, on the floor. I am
My girlfriend is a Montessori teacher and she is continually supplying me with small bits of parenting wisdom – a kind, charitable neighbor leaving shreds of lettuce leaves on her patio for me, the boggled spring bunny. Her most recent shred was not a leaf but an entire week’s worth of substance to chew on,
Just last week, in the kitchen, where she was still not yet tall enough to reach the pistachios, she asks, “Where’d you guys get me?” “From heaven,” says Ken, one room over, because he comes up with great, short answers, the kind that end in a period. Factual. Truth. A statement. My sentences end in