katherine.lasker – Page 4

A few weeks ago, I threw a very intimate, pandemic-friendly fourth birthday party for my daughter. In an attempt to bring some positivity to what has been, for her, and all of us, a pretty weird year, I poured my heart into party planning. She wanted a princess cake, so I pulled on my big girl apron and made her a pretty epic (albeit quite lopsided) princess cake. She wanted a piñata, so I Pintrested the crap out of homemade piñata ideas, and nearly sliced my finger off making her one. I got princess crafts, an alarmingly fluorescent princess dress, and a bunch of hideous princess jewelry.

And on the day of the party, my daughter had a pretty good time. She squealed in delight at her dress, stuffed herself with cake, and made sure that her guests went home with all of the least impressive pieces of faux jewelry. And, most importantly, she ignored me the entire time.

Going into the party, I wouldn’t have said that I really expected any specific acts of appreciation from her. She’s only four after all, and still needs a lot of prompting when it comes to pleases and thank yous. But when she spent the entire party avoiding my presence, and even going so far as to run from me every time I tried to take a picture with her, or share a bite of her cake, it broke my heart a little.

At the end of the day, her friends left, and she immediately ran to her room to play with her new jewelry box. Alone. I turned to my husband, and asked in near desperation, “do you think she liked it?” To which he replied, “she’s four, and there was cake. I’m pretty sure she liked it.”

It’s probably worth mentioning here that my daughter ignored my husband the entire day as well. And it didn’t phase him in the slightest. Partially because nothing really phases him, but also because he seems to have a more innate understanding of what I later learned from Janet Lansbury about child development and a four-year-old’s capacity to show, or even really understand, appreciation. Spoiler alert: they don’t have much.

Not only that, but my daughter (like many of yours) has been in quarantine for basically a year. Having a party in the backyard (albeit one attended by a mere two friends and their siblings) must have been totally overwhelming for her. It makes complete sense that she was too focused on the activities, the friends, and the sugar high to give two hoots about mom, or the fact that all of the fun she was experiencing hadn’t, in fact, materialized out of thin air.

In short, the fact that she was ignoring me really had nothing at all to do with me, or her opinion of the party, and everything to do with her. And the fact that she’s four.

While I am currently a mediocre-cake-and-piñata-making stay-at-home-mom, for the 10 years before that, I was a middle school English teacher. Like a lot of teachers, I was a chronic people pleaser, and I spent most of those ten years looking for approval in all the wrong places. Every year, I taught about 120 teens and pre-teens. A lot of them liked me, and a few of them didn’t. But, every year I found myself spending the majority of my mental energy ruminating on the haters. If a kid didn’t like me, I fixated on it. If their parents didn’t like me, I was panicked. And if a coworker or, god-forbid, an administrator, didn’t like me (or even just one of my beloved bulletin boards), it was devastating.

After about seven years of teaching, I had my first child. And, suddenly, I was too tired to care so much. I still let things get to me, and I still spent many an evening griping about the smallest of slights to a husband who responded with a lot of non-committal “I sees” and “mmm hmms,” but I could already feel a tiny layer of my oversensitivity peeling away.

A few hours after my daughter’s princess party, a friend texted to let me know how much fun she had had eating lopsided cake in our backyard. She also asked how I had made the stupid piñata; a comment which, I’m embarrassed to admit, made me swell with pride. And it was at that moment that the long overdue epiphany really smacked me in the face.

My daughter is four. She is not my boss, or the author of my yearly review. (She can’t even write a legible letter G for god’s sake.) Why was I allowing my sense of accomplishment, and potentially even my self-worth, to hinge on what I perceived to be her evaluation of my parenting, and/or party planning ability? At the end of the day, I cared enough to organize an activity for my daughter. I cleaned the house, and baked a cake, and made my husband finish the piñata after I somehow managed to injure myself in the process. I showed my daughter that she was loved, cared for, and valued, and that alone should have allowed me to rest easy at night.

While it’s oddly tempting to let the erratic and, oftentimes totally insane, ways in which my kids respond to me dictate how I judge myself as a parent, that system doesn’t really work. Because just like I wouldn’t let thirteen-year-old Timmy critique the way I’m teaching parallel structure (I’m really good at teaching parallel structure by the way), I also shouldn’t let my daughter’s mild dissatisfaction shake my confidence in my parenting choices.

As my kids get older, they’re going to continue to have a lot of opinions, as well as infuriatingly apathetic non-opinions, on the ways in which my husband and I choose to parent them. Throughout our time together, I have no doubt that they will provide me with a lot of feedback on what they liked, and, probably more often, what they didn’t. And while I, and most professional adults, have been trained to value, and even solicit, constructive feedback, we really have to remember to trust ourselves as well.

So, as I sit here planning my younger son’s second birthday party, I feel buoyed by the fact that I have finally given myself the freedom to care less about what others may think, and more about what I know is best. Because even if my son ends up being allergic to one of the animals at the petting zoo, or decides at the final hour that he actually wanted a pony cake, instead of a construction one, my own evaluation of the thought, effort, and love that I put in to caring for him on his birthday, and everyday, is really what matters most.

6:20 am. I hear the baby gate squeak open. A few seconds later, the dog’s tail starts to smack, slowly, against the comforter. How she managed to sneak all 50 lbs of her lumbering body onto the bed last night without my husband or I noticing is beyond me. Socked feet shuffle quietly into the room. The dog stretches her way to the edge of the bed. My husband rolls over and makes a pretend sleep sound, as if there’s any way that he didn’t hear the squeak, or feel the dog, or sense the quiet presence of the child in our room. It’s my turn to get up today.

7:30 am. The kitchen smells of coffee grounds and butter. The first two pieces of what will eventually become French toast sit soggily in a bowl of eggs, and the last of the milk. My daughter is on the floor, sob-screaming, because she decided, once she saw me throw the empty carton away, that she had really wanted cereal and milk, not French toast. French toast is horrible. Especially when I make it with the last of the milk. I’m not eating gluten these days. Or dairy. So perhaps the dog will eat this French toast.

8 am. Everyone is covered in syrup and blueberry stains. Turns out the French toast was O.K. We have thirty minutes to get cleaned up and ready for school. My son hears the sound of a fresh diaper being pulled from the drawer and bolts. But dad is awake, and caffeinated, and catches him by the waist, wrestling him to the ground. I brush my daughter’s hair. The new conditioner has done the trick and she screams for less than a minute. One deft “down ponytail” with purple hair tie later, she’s tear-less and ready to play Magnatiles with a freshly-diapered brother.

8:35 am. We are in the car on time. The dog appears to have stolen one shoe during the night and/or early morning, but it belongs to dad, so the kids and I are able to leave the house on-time, and well-soled. We’ve brought Anna and Elsa with us, as my daughter expressed an uncharacteristic desire to share them with her friends this morning. In the car, she clings to the dolls and asks for her favorite song–the one by 5 girls. She means “Stop,” by the Spice Girls. I willingly oblige, and we all sing along.

9:00 am. We drop off at in-home preschool with only two requests for “huggie and kissie.” Little brother plays with another little brother while the grownups talk about sleep schedules, and cutting in line for Covid vaccines. The conversation lightens me a little.

9:30 am. Little brother and I arrive at Stroller Strides. On time for the first time this week.

10:30 am. Stroller strides was a success. I was able to engage in light exercise, and good conversation, mostly related to babies, and toddlers, but some not. My son got to play at the park afterwards. He even kept his mask on, though he managed to stick his fingers in his nose, mouth, and eyes. He doesn’t know how to play with the other kids, and I’m worried he’s been in quarantine too long. Or maybe he’s just thoughtful like his dad. He stands there, watching two girls push each other on the play structure. I wonder if he’s judging them, or wishing he was brave enough to push someone too.

11:45 am. We’ve picked sister up at preschool, and I have engaged in another half-hour of adult conversation. I was even reminded of my son’s birthday party this weekend. I will have to bake a cake for that this week.

12:30 pm. It’s time for lunch. There’s another meltdown from my daughter, because it appears that we left Anna and Elsa at preschool. I make a loose promise to pick them up this afternoon, even though I know we won’t see them again until we go back on Thursday. Things escalate when we are not having pizza for lunch. Eventually, brother sits down to eat, and he seems to be enjoying the peanut butter and jelly, so my daughter joins him, hiccupping loudly. We’ve had more tantrums at mealtimes lately. I wonder if it’s because she’s noticed how big my belly is, and that I can’t sit in the tiny chair at lunch anymore.

1:30 pm. I’ve committed to sleep training my son again. He only naps in the stroller, and screams before bedtime at night. I’ve given in too much, and I’m determined to set more firm boundaries. He will sleep in his bed, or, at least, stay in his room, for a full hour today.

2:00 pm. I’ve given up. No one is napping, but the kids are busy playing dress-up in my daughter’s room, so I do the dishes instead.

2:30 pm. We have a playroom upstairs that we don’t use as often as we should. It’s far from the kitchen, and the laundry, so I can’t sneak in any chores while the kids play. The dog also likes to eat the carpet up there. But today, the kids want to have a tea party, so we crate the dog and head upstairs. The guest bedroom, now dad’s office, is off the playroom. He turns his swivel chair to the door and sighs as we come into view. He allows a few squeals, hugs and spins in the swivel chair before he turns on his noise-cancelling headphones, and closes and locks the door.

4:10 pm. Playroom time was the most relaxing part of my day. I commit to doing it more often. I got to lay on the couch for 10 minutes while the kids covered me in stickers. We read a few books–and not just the Frozen ones, but the good ones that I picked out. There was one about sharks, and Julian at the Wedding. My daughter likes Julian because there’s a flower girl in it. She will be a flower girl at her uncle’s wedding in the fall, and she likes to practice with pieces of toilet paper that she hides in her tiger purse.

4:30 pm. The babysitter arrives. Tuesday is date night, and the only night of the week that we have help. The babysitter comes at 4:30, so that I can schedule skype-dates with east-coast friends, or just lay in bed for an hour before my husband is done with work. It’s a truly precious time. Even though I can hear Magnatiles crashing to the cement floor just outside my bedroom door.

7:30 pm. Date night was a huge success, but we always come home early these days, because nothing is open, and both kids have a hard time going to sleep without us. My daughter picks out three books, and the only pair of pajamas that are too small for her. My son is reading with dad in his room. After books, we switch. 10 minutes later, I hear a door close, and know that my daughter is asleep.

8 pm. My sleep-sack-clad son sits up on his bed, surrounded by blocks, trucks and stuffed animals. He wants water, but not the plastic cup that sits on the floor by his bed. He wants the yellow cup, with the orange straw, and he wants to fill it up himself. We trek to the kitchen. He fills the cup at the sink and gets his sleeve wet. We have to change shirts now, and begin the song, backrub, night-light on, sip of water process all over again.

8:30 pm. My son is finally asleep. He’s on the floor by his closet, but still on the rug, so I won’t move him back to bed for another hour. I want to read, or write, or bake something we can eat for breakfast tomorrow, but my body won’t seem to move off the couch. I drink some ice water, and do a kick count. I feel seven in twenty minutes and call it. My husband is playing the piano in the other room. I look over at the dog, who is licking her belly on the couch next to me. “He’s so motivated,” I say to her. She looks at me, and then whines for dinner. I haven’t fed her since breakfast. At least, I think I fed her breakfast.

My son is about to turn two this week. And I think he knows it. Because, lately, he’s been testing out a bunch of fun new personalities, that are unlike anything I’ve seen from him before.

My once peaceful and compliant second child has suddenly learned the word “no.” He has learned that he can get a reaction out of me when he rips his diaper off and entices the dog into a very naked (and very dangerous) game of chase. He has learned that he can refuse my help, and that I’d rather allow him to try and put his own shoes on for 45 minutes than listen to him scream while I help him. Overall, it’s been a pretty exciting time over here, and I really can’t wait to see what the actual terrible twos throw our way.

But in all seriousness, and especially on the days when he doesn’t wake up shrieking at 3am because he lost one of the enormous wooden blocks he likes to sleep with, it’s been pretty cool to see my son start testing out some new identities, and versions of himself.

Sometimes, when I observe his efforts, I can tell that he is copying his sister–like when he climbs on the end tables, yells “1, 2, 3, BLAST OFF” and launches himself head-first onto the couch. But other times, he seems to reveal little bursts of personality that are purely his own–like when he eats ice cream, scrunches up his nose, makes two, tiny “OK” signs with his hands and yells “ME LIKE IT!”

Many of the character traits that I would use to describe my son today, are wildly different than the ones I would have used a mere month ago, and that is pretty darn amazing (albeit, exhausting).

The other day, I was reading the old standby, It’s Not Easy Being a Bunny with both of my kids. It’s one my son has really been enjoying these days, as he is currently very attracted to any book that is a little too long and obnoxiously repetitive. And while I can’t say I love it, this book highlighted for me the almost instinctual ways in which kids (and bunnies) are constantly trying on, and testing out, new identities.

While my son is currently working out whether he wants to have an attitude or not, my four-year-old daughter is grappling with different, big-kid decisions, like whether she wants to wear dresses or shorts, lead or follow, and be funny like her one friend, or curious like the other. When I taught middle school, this kind of “testing out” was in many ways at it’s peak. I had a student one year who showed up on a Friday in a polo shirt and high-waisted jeans, and arrived on Monday with blue hair and dangerously over-sized black skater shorts.

While this was, and is, a little exhausting for me as both a parent and a teacher, it’s also really cool to see. Because that kid in the tucked-in polo shirt was quiet, withdrawn, and, seemingly at least, pretty unhappy. But the blue-haired version had a group to sit with at lunch, a smile on his face, and even willingly raised his hand in class. And while my almost-two-year-old’s newfound ‘tude is driving me a little nuts, he’s also becoming so much more himself, which, I think, is largely the point of this whole parenting thing.

So P.J. Funnybunny’s determination to become a new version of himself was a lovely reminder for me of the near-constant way in which my own kids’ identities are evolving and transforming. But, more importantly, it also reminded me of the way in which my identity has been pretty stagnant. For a very long time.

Because most adults don’t really give ourselves a lot of leeway to try out new versions of ourselves. And I’m not just talking about deciding to become more organized, or more health-conscious, or less of a high-maintenance Starbucks orderer. I mean deciding to let yourself be funny, or outgoing, or a risk-taker when, previously, you would never have described yourself as any of those things.

At the end of It’s Not Easy Being a Bunny, P.J. runs back to the safety of his crowded rabbit hole because he’s decided that that grass is definitely not greener on the other side (especially the side with skunks). And while I think the message this conveys about appreciating what you have is a good one, I also think it reinforces the idea that we somehow have to be the thing we were “born” into, or that our friends decided for us back in middle school.

While I have truly enjoyed and appreciated my year as a stay-at-home mom, it definitely slapped me in the face with a much-needed identity crisis. Being home gave me the space I needed to really think about what it is I want to “be” next. Do I want to be a stay at home mom forever? Do I want to go back to work full time? Do I want to be on social media, or even have a smartphone? Do I want to be a writer? Or a tutor? Or a school administrator?

But more importantly it also made me think about who I want to be. Do I want to continue to sweat the small stuff? Or be the habitual “rule follower” that my friends have always known, and probably been annoyed with at one point or another? Do I want to put myself out there more? Take more risks? Start allowing my kids to do the same?

Sometimes when I think about trying out one or more of these new “identities,” I find myself worrying about what happens if it’s not the right one. What will people think if I “let loose,” for a bit, only to reel it back in later? Will I be judged for putting myself out there in a way that’s different than who I’ve always been, or tried to be?

At the end of the day, I’m always going to be a “bunny”. There are certain things about myself that I can’t, and honestly don’t want to, change. But there are also things I’ve always wondered about, and other ways of living that look pretty darn appetizing to me. And if my two-year-old is brave enough to try on some new versions of himself (and be seriously judged by his dad and I in the process), then I should be too.

As always, thanks for reading, and I hope you stick around no matter which version of myself I try on next week.

Last week, my daughter turned four, and I realized about a week beforehand that I should probably have bought her a gift. When I was little, February felt like years past Christmas, but as an adult, I was pretty sure Santa had just brought us all of her heart’s desires (and then some). However, thanks to Amazon, and our insane, toy-obsessed culture, I managed to find my kiddo some things she’d enjoy, and that wouldn’t rot her brain, at the final hour.

But in all seriousness, my daughter (and her brother) have really enjoyed these toys, games, and books. And while I don’t think that any age kid needs more than a few birthday presents, a bunch of these ended up coming to us from various aunts and uncles, and have led to a hours of adorable creative play.

Lego Battery-Powered Train

This train was a gift from my daughter’s aunt and uncle and is now one of our top 3 most-used toys. The train is battery operated, and runs on a duplo-style track that kids put together themselves. The set also comes with some “command” pieces, which kids can place at different locations along the track in order to get the train to do things like stop, reverse, or fill up with gas. This set inspired a lot of creative thinking in my daughter, and was also very much enjoyed by my two-year-old son.

Kid’s Digital Camera

My daughter loves taking pictures with my phone. I, on the other hand, find this activity a little anxiety-provoking. So for her recent birthday, she received this OZMI kid’s digital camera, which allows her to take as many photos as videos as she would like, on a device that is far less expensive than my IPhone. The camera even comes with it’s own SD card and USB cable, so that kids can print or store the pictures they take.

Doll Baby Carrier

My daughter will soon be receiving a huge gift that she may or may not be super thrilled about: another baby brother. So in an attempt to get her excited about the new addition, I got her an Ergo Baby Doll Ca rrier for her to practice playing “mama” (or, at least big sister) to her toys and stuffed animals. So far, she’s LOVED it, and enjoys being able to swing, slide and do the monkey bars with her animal friends in tow.

Light-Up Bath Toys

I stumbled across these light-up bath toys at a friend’s house and thought they were so fun. Turns out my kids agree. These toys look like typical bath toys, but light up when they touch the water. Now, every time we take a tub, we turn down the lights, pump up the jams (aka a lot of Baby Shark), and call it “club tub.”

Dress-up / Costumes

Four-year-olds are really into dress up. Developmentally, their imaginations are exploding, and any opportunity to pretend to be someone (or something) else is greeted with enthusiasm and delight. Currently, my daughter’s favorite dress-up pieces are her mermaid dress, high-heels, super-hero cape and firefighter outfit. She also received this jewelry box from one of her uncles, and has really enjoyed using it to organize her beloved costume jewelry.

Board Games

When little brother goes down for his mid-day nap, my daughter and I love to play board games together. Many of these games are educational as well as entertaining, and all of them help teach preschoolers important interpersonal and cooperation skills. I have included links to the ones we play most often below, all of which are most appropriate for the 3.5-year-old+ crowd.

Books!

I’ve included a few of the books my own daughter received for her fourth birthday. All of these books are beautiful inside and out, and were truly a gift for both the kids and the parents in our family.

If I Had A Little Dream: The sweetest book for both parents and children. This book walks kids through all of the things the narrator wishes for, and what she would call them. It ends with mom’s verse which begins with: “If I had a little dream, I would name it You.” Full disclosure, you might cry.

Where Happiness Lives: This beautiful book has flaps (so your kid will definitely love it), but also conveys such a wonderful message about where happiness really comes from.

3. I Say Ooh, You Say Ahh: This is a super fun and silly interactive book. Each page teaches readers a new “call and response,” which continues throughout the entire book. We’ve really enjoyed this read, and usually end up laughing at the end.

I hope you stumbled across something you, or your kiddo, will love! Happy playing, reading and birthday partying!

Moms of the internet seem to really hate when strangers at the grocery store tell them “you’ve got your hands full!” The memes on this topic are endless, and sometimes they even make me laugh.

But to be totally honest, I kind of agree with these intrusive pedestrians. Because, really, they’re exactly correct: I, and all the other moms out there, really do have our hands full (even if it’s maybe not always in the way that they mean).

Yesterday afternoon, I was walking my children along the sandy beachfront path a few blocks from our home (which sounds idyllic, except for the fact that, as I previously stated, I had both of my children with me, and it was afternoon, so one, or both of them, really should have been sleeping), when an older woman walking an alarmingly bedraggled-looking beagle, neither of whom I knew in any capacity, stopped, raised her eyebrows at my 32-week pregnant belly, and said “girl, you’re brave.“

I feel like a lot of internet moms would have had a field day with this comment. It was pretty intrusive. And a little bit rude. But I surprised both her, and myself, when my immediate reaction was to laugh. I even peed my pants a little (although that isn’t too unusual for me at this point). The older woman smiled, gestured to my stroller, and wished me “good luck with all that,” as she continued to drag her dog down the sidewalk.

And I kind of love that woman, because I’m pretty sure she’s me in 30 years.

Having two children under four is a wild ride. I definitely do have my hands, and my pockets, and my patience-pouch full. And in a few, short months, we’re “bravely” throwing another kid on top of it all.

The decision to get pregnant again was not an easy one. In fact, my husband and I talked about it basically every night, for a year. Because, as the aforementioned stranger implied, having a third kid is pretty scary.

Sure, the risks of pregnancy are scary, as is the financial burden of three children, and the fact that I’ll be officially outnumbered whenever the kids and I leave the house without my husband. But for me, what scares me the most is the first, and arguably the cutest, part of parenthood: the newborn phase.

The newborn phase has never been my favorite. In fact, I can honestly say that I hated Cara Dumaplin (Of Taking Cara Babies fame) long before it was “cool” to hate her, largely because she told me that her $120 sleep training course would magically allow me to “love the newborn phase.” Spoiler alert: I paid up, and it didn’t happen.

During my first pregnancy, I worried about whether the baby would be healthy, and how I would survive delivery. The prospect of giving birth was so foreign and overwhelming to me that I couldn’t really look past it and imagine what the days and weeks immediately afterwards would be like. And so, like most new moms, I brought a beautiful, healthy baby home from the hospital, only to be bombarded by the real challenges that, despite taking all the right classes, and reading all the right books, no one really told me about.

During those first few weeks, I was shocked by how insane true sleep deprivation could make me feel. I was shocked by how much time my baby spent sleeping, yet how little I was able to accomplish during the day. I was shocked by how foreign my body felt, how difficult breastfeeding was, how much it hurt to take a gosh darn poop, and how overwhelming and unpredictable my emotions were.

While all of these perfectly normal side-effects of early motherhood were difficult, the sadness that seemed to linger at the edge of every beautiful moment was the most surprising, and frightening to me. While I had experienced periods of real sadness before, they had all been brought on by, or correlated with, difficult, or truly saddening life events. Never before had I had so many reasons to be happy, yet felt so darn bummed out all the time.

When my second child was born, he slept less, and got sick more, and the “baby blues” I experienced with my first were a little closer to navy. While, the second time around, I had a better understanding of the connection between my crashing hormones, and my bummed out brain, it was even harder for me to give myself grace, and space to sit in my emotions–largely because I now had a daughter who was there, and watching me, all the time.

This time around, I’m still worried about the health of my baby. I’m also worried about the delivery, and the epidural, and the Apgar score, and whether or not I’ll be able to pee when they take the dang catheter out. But I’m mostly worried about feeling sad again, and having two tiny pairs of eyes on me as I try my best to find the sunshine in what is normally a very cloudy time for me.

When that lady on the boardwalk told me that I’m “brave”, she probably meant it facetiously. If my kids were old enough to understand her, I might actually have been mad, and would have had to make it clear to my kids that they are not, in fact, the burden she was implying they were. Because my kids are absolutely adorable, and, right after my husband, the absolute greatest blessings in my life.

But despite her implicit sarcasm, that “you’re brave” transported me into the mind of a future version of myself, perched on a well-worn rocker in the middle of the night, wincing in pain as a I try to get a squirming newborn to latch before his whimpers become cries loud enough to wake up the entire house. It made me imagine an afternoon spent playing puzzles with my kids, and being awed by their perfection while simultaneously feeling completely overwhelmed by sadness. I saw myself sitting at a boisterous and joyful dinner table as the sun goes down, unable to focus on my daughter’s lighthearted tales of her day because I’m somehow incapable of tearing my mind away from it’s fixation on the seemingly endlessly dark night ahead.

But as much as I am fearful of this third postpartum period, I am so much more excited about what it represents. Because, despite the undeniable challenges we’ve endured together, my kids have completely transformed my life for the better. And while the beautiful parts of their childhoods are often the ones I most want to celebrate and remember, the hard ones also matter too.

When I think about my kids watching me struggle, and feel sad, and wonder, out loud, if I can do it all, I feel a little bit heartbroken, but also a little bit proud. Because life, in general, is pretty hard. As my kids grow up, they are going to be faced with challenge after challenge that is unlike anything they have faced before. If they do it right, they will have periods in their lives where they suffer, or feel like a failure, or wonder if whatever they worked so hard for was really, actually worth it. And while they likely won’t remember the 6-8 weeks after their littlest brother was born, I hope that some part of my struggle, and my efforts to rise above it, stick with them as a reminder of what real life, and real bravery, really looks like.

I know that at some point in the near future I’ll be zombie-walking through the grocery store with three screaming kids in tow when someone passes me and yells, “you’ve got your hands full!” without making any attempt to actually help. And I won’t resent them for it. Partially because I won’t have the mental space to process any more emotions, but also because they’ll be right. I do, and will, always have my hands full, and I’m so, eternally grateful that I was brave enough to make it that way.

Kid’s Book Companion:

This story was inspired by a truly lovely kid’s book entitled Orion And The Dark by Emma Yarlet. The book follows Orion, who is, at first, terrified of pretty much everything (including, of course, the dark), as he discovers that the things he thinks are scary are really just there to help him grow. This story is so creatively told and beautifully illustrated, and I can not recommend it enough. You can purchase the book via the link below. Happy reading!

Why I Don’t Let My Kids Opinions Dictate How I Feel About My Parenting

Motherhood: A Day In The Life

Testing New Identities in Childhood, Adulthood & Classic Kid’s Books

The Best Gifts For Four-Year-Olds