I am terrible at making cakes. It involves both baking and decorating skills that I have never and are likely to never possess. Thankfully, I am not the designated cook or baker in our family. That’s all my husband.
My husband never planned to be a cook or stay at home dad. In college, he was a chemistry and then political science major. Frankly, he had no idea what he wanted to be.
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Kneeling on the bricks in our town square, my older son seemed to be attacking them with chalk. Intently focused, he was rubbing his blue piece of chalk onto a brick.
“I’m rage-chalking,” he informed me.
“Ah,” I said, now understanding. “Yes, that’s absolutely something you can do.” I nodded and went back to filling in my own squares.
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“You should be so available to play that your children never need to ask,” read the meme. Or least that’s how I read it. (Although it really was close to it.) But what if they always want more than I have to offer? I thought in desperation.
Other memes or oversimplified advice extolled the virtues of connection, especially when it came to getting your kids to do what you want or need them to do, like brush their teeth or come to the table for dinner. Some even made the connection explicit, saying that your kids will be cooperative if only you’re connected enough with them. Of course that message implies the opposite – that if they aren’t cooperative, it’s because you aren’t connected enough.
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“You aren’t supposed to lead play, just watch,” the parenting expert voice in the back of my head said. So I sat there on the living room floor and watched, keeping my mouth closed, lest I pass judgment on how my kid was playing.
Even though something felt ‘off’ about this statement, I couldn’t help but see it as the culmination of so much parenting advice – and more strikingly, parent shaming.
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Often, the most beautiful things aren’t neat and tidy, but messy and unexpected. As someone who finds a lack of control stressful, this can be tough for me to deal with! It takes a lot of effort for me to move past something not meeting my expectations to find the good in it.
But I’ve made a real effort to keep my eyes open for these small moments of joy, both in nature and with my kids. I’ve found them in my kids geeking out together over a shared topic, adorable bumblebees in my yard, the way clouds part just-so around the sun, birdsong, and reading to my kids. And these bright flowers in my neighbor’s flower box.
Some psychologists call these small joys “glimmers,” which are opposite of trauma-induced triggers. They can help counteract the everyday annoyances of life and the endless march of our society’s soul-crushing injustices. With our kids, noticing and remembering these times can really help when we’re frustrated with them or just so tired.
Glimmers aren’t a quick fix or easy solution. They won’t solve those aforementioned problems. But they are a way to find more joy, which can be helpful to most of us.
There are some trees you see and you just know they’re magical. They’re magical like you can sit easily in them on a summer day reading a book, on a branch that’s just the right height. They’re magical like you could swear you saw a fairy in the hole *right there*. They’re magical like you can just see the squirrels chasing each other up and down them, even if they aren’t there that moment. They’re magical in that you can feel the years in them, the memories and secrets of place they have stored. They’re magical like childhood.
This tree was just outside the used book sale tent of the Friends of the Library at the Gaithersburg Book Festival. Books + trees = joy. Obviously magical.
“Can you water your garlic?” I asked my younger son, referring to the elephant garlic we planted in our garden. He loves elephants, so of course we had to plant an elephant plant.
“Sure!” he replied.
Now, did he actually water it? Well, no. He tried, but the rain barrel was out of water and then he got distracted.
Thankfully, the garden isn’t school and watering is not homework. But there is much my kids will learn from it, above and beyond the practical skills that go into planting and cultivating seeds. These lessons are drawn from my own experience, but also heavily influenced from broader points I’ve picked up from the books Braiding Sweetgrass and Lessons from Plants. As Robin Wall Kimmerer says in Braiding Sweetgrass, “Plants speak in a tongue that every breathing thing can understand. Plants teach in a universal language: food.”
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I smiled as I saw my friend’s kindergartener running towards me waving the trans rights flag of pink, blue, and white. While she may have known what it stood for – her parents are supportive of trans folks – I suspect she was just happy to have a flag. But I was also heartened that the organization supporting LBGTQ+ youth had a prominent booth in-between the kids area and the carnival rides at our city’s big festival. It was impossible to miss, with all of the lovely rainbow decorations. When we stopped by the booth, we picked up a rainbow peace sign necklace.
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As I finished reading this beautiful book with my younger son, we read the section in the back where the author (Fidgets and Fries) describes how it’s based on her relationship with her nonspeaking autistic son, although he’s older now than the kid in the book. I mentioned that she’s autistic as well, as is her younger son.
“What’s autistic again?” asked my son. “I forgot.”
So I explained to him how it’s a set of ways some people’s brains are different than the average, including differences in communication, reading social cues, interests, sensory perception, and sometimes coordination. (We have multiple neurodivergences in our family, so he’s familiar with the idea of people’s brains being different from the average.)
I then paused and thought about how to phrase what I was going to say next. “I think I might be autistic too. It’s sometimes hard to tell when you’re an adult and have learned some of those skills.” He nodded, not particularly surprised that my brain (or anyone’s in our family) doesn’t work like the average person’s.
Thank you to Tiffany Hammond for writing such a beautiful book that offers both important representation and the opportunity to start and continue important conversations about the beautiful diversity of all of our brains.
“Baby Yoda left,” my older son told me as I was tucking him in. He was referring to our Baby Yoda Tamagotchi, which eventually leaves with the Mandalorian if you take good care of him.
“Oh?” I said.
“Yeah, I looked to see how Baby Yoda was feeling and he was gone. And I was like, Oh, that’s how he’s feeling,” he said.
“Mmmm, well, you know something?” I whispered to him. “That’s how it feels to me with you.”
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