Writing a book is a lot like birthing a baby. Both require huge amounts of work to bring into the world. Both have unending unpredictabilities and surprises. Both are deep works of love.
And today, I’m celebrating both. It’s my book release day for Growing Sustainable Together: Practical Resources for Raising Kind, Engaged Resilient Children and the anniversary of my older son’s birth.
“I’m laughing cause I read that book. She’s 14 now and she’s okay,” a woman commented to me. She gestured at the book in my hand, an advice book about parenting challenging kids. Absorbed in my own thoughts, it took a second to realize she was even talking to me.
“And he’s splashing in a puddle!” I said, pointing out the picture of a beige puppy frolicking in the rain.
Then I stopped. Why had I assumed the puppy was male? Why was the “he” my default? For that matter, why did I assume the adult dog singing the song to the puppy was their mother?
“One two three four five six seven eight nine ten!” my three year old counted, touching the pictures in the book as he went.
I blinked. Since when can he count? Did this just happen?
The story that opens this essay was so heartbreaking! My kids are usually okay with death, but dead parents are a whole different thing.
Here’s the first few paragraphs:
My two-year-old’s face was blank. Then it curved down into the slightest of frowns, as he stared at the open magazine’s page. As he’s usually a very expressive kid, I had never seen this look before.
But then, I had never read a line in a story quite like that: “This baby skunk lost its mother.”
Sierra Magazine was one of my dream publications to write for and Kandi Mossett is a complete badass, so I was so glad to profile her for them.
In 1999, Kandi Mossett found a purple-red, pea-size lump on her stomach and immediately suspected cancer. She was 20 years old. For Native Americans on the Fort Berthold reservation in North Dakota, cancer is a fact of life.
I brought my kids to the People’s Climate March a couple of years ago and I’m likely to again, especially with the youth climate movement ramping up. I wrote about why in a post for Ravishly.
Here’s the first few paragraphs:
“Anyone have tips for bringing a kid to a political protest?” one of my friends posted on Facebook.
It was around the March for Our Lives, and he was trying to make a decision many parents were facing. But almost every single response was negative. Several people implied he would be putting his child in danger. At the time, I was the lone voice of dissent. Trying to be encouraging, I responded, “As someone who actually did this, my kids were fine.”
But they were more than just fine. They were great.
I’ve never felt like I’ve known so little about something I have so much experience with than in parenting. I wrote about it (back in 2018) for Filter Free Parents.
The door to my six-year-old’s room burst open and he bounced into the living room. “What do you want to eat for breakfast?” I asked, sitting on the couch.
“I want to make eggs!” he declared.
“How was school today?” I asked my older son as we sat at the dinner table. He just looked at me. Trying a different tactic, I reframed the question, “What was the funniest thing that happened at school?” He just shrugged. Well, then.
While I’m always interested in what’s going on with my kids, this year is particularly intriguing to me. First grade is the first year that I have a lot of clear memories of my own childhood.