I’m sure some of you have heard that the Association for Research on Mothering (ARM) has been forced to close its doors. ARM was established in 1998 and was the first international feminist organization devoted specifically to the topic of mothering and motherhood. With members from over 20 countries around the world, ARM reached across borders and scholarly disciplines, connecting women, mothers, and scholars from across the globe. ARM hosted three conferences each year, published the Journal of the Association for Research on Mothering, and also published books through Demeter Press.
But York University, where ARM was housed, was not willing to support the research center. You can read more about that here.
I was actually slated to present a paper at the joint ARM/Mamapalooza conference in New York this spring, and I was thrilled that I would finally meet ARM’s founder, Andrea O’Reilly, and its wonderful coordinator, Renée Knapp. I won’t meet Andrea this year, but I am hoping to meet her someday soon at a conference, a Motherhood Institute for Research and Community Involvement conference.
In the wake of the announcement of ARM’s closing, there was an outpouring of support. Letters were written to York University officials, and there was a flurry of commiserating and outraged e-mails being sent back and forth between ARM members.
It was clear to O’Reilly that the work ARM was doing needed to continue. So a few weeks ago, O’Reilly announced that a new organization on motherhood would be formed and would begin operations on May 1, 2010. The Motherhood Institute for Research and Community Involvement (MIRCI) is the newly launched feminist scholarly and activist organization on mothering-motherhood. It will continue the work of ARM, move in new directions and take on new projects.
The institute will house the Journal of the Motherhood Institute (formerly the Journal of the Association for Research on Mothering), Mother Outlaws, The International Mothers Network, The Young Mothers Empowerment Project, The Motherhood Studies Forum, and it will be partnered with Demeter Press. Memberships to MIRCI and subscriptions to the Journal of the Motherhood Institute will commence May 1, 2010.
In an age where writing and research about motherhood is often ignored or discarded (I know you’ve heard me say this before), it’s vital to have organizations like MIRCI working to bring motherhood research out of the limelight. So, join MIRCI if you haven’t already. Or make a donation so their motherhood research, activism, and community work can continue without interruption.
Thank you, Andrea and Renée, for continuing with this important work!
Showing posts with label feminism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label feminism. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
the power of words
Thank you for your kind comments on yesterday’s post. I’ll keep plugging along, I promise.
And because I’m going to keep plugging along, I have a few things to say about how women’s writing is described.
So often in our society, writing by a group of people is lumped together and dismissed. This has certainly been the case with motherhood literature. In 1976, Adrienne Rich began Of Woman Born with this: “We know more about the air we breathe, the seas we travel, than about the nature and meaning of motherhood.” Three decades later, we have made some headway: a few literary journals featuring motherhood writing have emerged, motherhood scholarship has found a place in some academic settings, and a number of books about motherhood have been published. Yet, motherhood literature and motherhood memoir, offensively christened “momoir,” is routinely dismissed.
The names people use to describe literature or movies—or anything—have an impact on how those things are perceived. And when you categorize books as “chick lit,” “mommy lit,” or “momoir” you are making it easier for people to discard these books. They are viewed as less serious, less important. (I wrote a long post about “mommy lit” here.)
I like what Kate Trueblood, author of A Baby Lottery, says about “chick lit”:
You can read the whole interview with Kate Trueblood on her website.
All you have to do it tack “mommy” or “chick” onto something and it loses value. So imagine my dismay when I read the recent New York Times article “Honey, Don’t Bother Mommy. I’m Too Busy Building My Brand.” As if women blogging about motherhood need any more flack.
Susan over at Two Kinds of People has a wonderful response to this article. Here is an excerpt. Please head over to her blog for the whole post.
And because I’m going to keep plugging along, I have a few things to say about how women’s writing is described.
So often in our society, writing by a group of people is lumped together and dismissed. This has certainly been the case with motherhood literature. In 1976, Adrienne Rich began Of Woman Born with this: “We know more about the air we breathe, the seas we travel, than about the nature and meaning of motherhood.” Three decades later, we have made some headway: a few literary journals featuring motherhood writing have emerged, motherhood scholarship has found a place in some academic settings, and a number of books about motherhood have been published. Yet, motherhood literature and motherhood memoir, offensively christened “momoir,” is routinely dismissed.
The names people use to describe literature or movies—or anything—have an impact on how those things are perceived. And when you categorize books as “chick lit,” “mommy lit,” or “momoir” you are making it easier for people to discard these books. They are viewed as less serious, less important. (I wrote a long post about “mommy lit” here.)
I like what Kate Trueblood, author of A Baby Lottery, says about “chick lit”:
“What concerns me is not that this genre exists, but that there is an increasing tendency to pull all women’s literature into that category. If all women writers are all classified that way, what happens to the female writers of social protest and other difficult social questions?
I believe that the blanket classifying of all women’s writing as chick lit goes back to the age-old notion that women only write about small, domestic matters. Lumping female literature together like this prevents the serious questions from getting asked about what it’s like to try and combine life with a partner and a career and children. This is something that obviously a lot of young women are thinking about. I am not opposed to chick lit, but I think it is important to be mindful of distinctions that matter.”
You can read the whole interview with Kate Trueblood on her website.
All you have to do it tack “mommy” or “chick” onto something and it loses value. So imagine my dismay when I read the recent New York Times article “Honey, Don’t Bother Mommy. I’m Too Busy Building My Brand.” As if women blogging about motherhood need any more flack.
Susan over at Two Kinds of People has a wonderful response to this article. Here is an excerpt. Please head over to her blog for the whole post.
"I guess it's the language that gets to me, because I'm picky about words. Words are powerful — they carry weight and meaning and subtext that is both subtle and profound. "Mommy Blogger", like "Soccer Mom" before it, carries a wide range of connotations, as illustrated a full year ago by the social media guide Mashable, which posted a list of 10 Misconceptions About Mommy Bloggers.
Most style guidelines advise using gender-neutral language whenever possible: server vs. waitress or waiter; manager or executive, not businessman; actor, not actress. In fact, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, the word "actor" was originally used for both sexes (1581); we didn't see "actress" introduced until 1666, 85 years later."
Words are powerful. I wish people would use them more carefully.
Friday, November 27, 2009
respecting differences
I hope you all had a lovely Thanksgiving holiday and didn't eat beyond capacity, something I seemed to do. Two meals, spaced five hours apart = too much food.
I’m sure many of you have read Lynn Harris’ Salon article “Everybody Hates Mommy,” in which Harris tries to unpack why there is so much anger and downright hatred directed towards mothers, particularly white, middle-class mothers (and particularly those that live in Park Slope).
Whoa, people. The comments that this article elicited are incredible—so many are full of such vitriol that I stopped reading after two pages.
But I’m interested in what Harris has to say. I think one of the important points she makes is that mothers are judged no matter what they do or don’t do. Everyone has an opinion about what makes a “good” mother, and if the mother in front of you isn’t fulfilling the role, well, hell, let her have it.
Another point she makes has to do with the fact that women—and especially women who are mothers—are supposed to be invisible. She says, “Women—still—are not ‘supposed’ to take up space. Mothers, in particular. We are—still—supposed to remain in the background, doing whatever it is mothers do, smiling. We grow a belly, we need a seat, we say ‘excuse me, please,’ we speak up (or, God forbid, blog), and we’ve crossed the line, said or asked too much, become ‘entitled.’”
The reason I do what I do—write about motherhood literature, teach my Mother Words class, host an annual Mother Words reading, work for Literary Mama—is to help create a space where literature (and yes, it is worthy of that word) about motherhood—the varied and complex, often stunning and often heartbreaking writing by women who are mothers, is taken seriously as art. Because of course it’s often not taken seriously for the very reasons that Harris states in her article. Women are still supposed to be quiet. Mothers, especially, should be quiet. We should not write about the truth of our experiences. We should definitely not write against the myths of motherhood.
Motherhood writing is often discarded (or ignored or not published at all) because of its subject matter. But memoir is never so much about its subject matter as it is about, as Brett Lott says, the relationship between the writer and the subject at hand. I don’t like boxing, but I love Toure’s “What’s Inside You, Brother?” and Gay Talese’s “Ali in Havana.” William Zinsser, in On Writing Well, says, “Ultimately, the product that any writer has to sell is not the subject being written about, but who he or she is. I often find myself reading with interest about a topic I never thought would interest me—some scientific quest, perhaps. What holds me is the enthusiasm of the writer for his field. How was he drawn into it? What emotional baggage did he bring along? How did it change his life?”
But it’s funny—and not in a ha-ha sort of way—that when the subject is motherhood, people don’t seem to be as willing to read, to let themselves be drawn in.
One of the people who commented (early, before I stopped reading) on Harris’ article posed this question: “When are people going to start treating respect as if it mattered?” When indeed?
I forwarded the link to Harris’ article to my current Mother Words students, and one of my wonderful students responded with a link to an article in the new online literary journal Candor.
It was Women Writer + Writer Mother: A Conversation Between Sarah Manguso and Rachel Zucker, and in this conversation, writers Sarah Manguso and Rachel Zucker discuss what they have in common and what they don’t, and both are very honest about what kinds of stereotypes they’ve bought into and what kind of judgments they’ve made about mothers and women who chose not to be mothers. This is a long conversation, but it’s worth the read, and I think it adds another dimension to Harris’ article about the way mothers and nonmothers are pitted against each other. (Which on some level has to do with the cultural myths of motherhood still perpetuated in our society…)
I very much like the way this conversation ends. Rachel Zucker says, “I had assumed that what we had in common was what would bring us close, but of course this is not necessarily true. In our case what brought us closer was a shared interest in exploring a difference between us.”
I wonder what would happen if people were truly interested in exploring differences and similarities rather than pointing fingers and slinging insults at one another. Could we come to some understanding? Could we learn to be kind, to respect each other? Could we—please—learn to respect each other’s writing?
I’m sure many of you have read Lynn Harris’ Salon article “Everybody Hates Mommy,” in which Harris tries to unpack why there is so much anger and downright hatred directed towards mothers, particularly white, middle-class mothers (and particularly those that live in Park Slope).
Whoa, people. The comments that this article elicited are incredible—so many are full of such vitriol that I stopped reading after two pages.
But I’m interested in what Harris has to say. I think one of the important points she makes is that mothers are judged no matter what they do or don’t do. Everyone has an opinion about what makes a “good” mother, and if the mother in front of you isn’t fulfilling the role, well, hell, let her have it.
Another point she makes has to do with the fact that women—and especially women who are mothers—are supposed to be invisible. She says, “Women—still—are not ‘supposed’ to take up space. Mothers, in particular. We are—still—supposed to remain in the background, doing whatever it is mothers do, smiling. We grow a belly, we need a seat, we say ‘excuse me, please,’ we speak up (or, God forbid, blog), and we’ve crossed the line, said or asked too much, become ‘entitled.’”
The reason I do what I do—write about motherhood literature, teach my Mother Words class, host an annual Mother Words reading, work for Literary Mama—is to help create a space where literature (and yes, it is worthy of that word) about motherhood—the varied and complex, often stunning and often heartbreaking writing by women who are mothers, is taken seriously as art. Because of course it’s often not taken seriously for the very reasons that Harris states in her article. Women are still supposed to be quiet. Mothers, especially, should be quiet. We should not write about the truth of our experiences. We should definitely not write against the myths of motherhood.
Motherhood writing is often discarded (or ignored or not published at all) because of its subject matter. But memoir is never so much about its subject matter as it is about, as Brett Lott says, the relationship between the writer and the subject at hand. I don’t like boxing, but I love Toure’s “What’s Inside You, Brother?” and Gay Talese’s “Ali in Havana.” William Zinsser, in On Writing Well, says, “Ultimately, the product that any writer has to sell is not the subject being written about, but who he or she is. I often find myself reading with interest about a topic I never thought would interest me—some scientific quest, perhaps. What holds me is the enthusiasm of the writer for his field. How was he drawn into it? What emotional baggage did he bring along? How did it change his life?”
But it’s funny—and not in a ha-ha sort of way—that when the subject is motherhood, people don’t seem to be as willing to read, to let themselves be drawn in.
One of the people who commented (early, before I stopped reading) on Harris’ article posed this question: “When are people going to start treating respect as if it mattered?” When indeed?
I forwarded the link to Harris’ article to my current Mother Words students, and one of my wonderful students responded with a link to an article in the new online literary journal Candor.
It was Women Writer + Writer Mother: A Conversation Between Sarah Manguso and Rachel Zucker, and in this conversation, writers Sarah Manguso and Rachel Zucker discuss what they have in common and what they don’t, and both are very honest about what kinds of stereotypes they’ve bought into and what kind of judgments they’ve made about mothers and women who chose not to be mothers. This is a long conversation, but it’s worth the read, and I think it adds another dimension to Harris’ article about the way mothers and nonmothers are pitted against each other. (Which on some level has to do with the cultural myths of motherhood still perpetuated in our society…)
I very much like the way this conversation ends. Rachel Zucker says, “I had assumed that what we had in common was what would bring us close, but of course this is not necessarily true. In our case what brought us closer was a shared interest in exploring a difference between us.”
I wonder what would happen if people were truly interested in exploring differences and similarities rather than pointing fingers and slinging insults at one another. Could we come to some understanding? Could we learn to be kind, to respect each other? Could we—please—learn to respect each other’s writing?
Friday, June 12, 2009
i double-dare you
A year and a half ago, Andrea Buchanan’s and Miriam Peskowitz’s The Daring Book for Girls entered the book world with a raucous yee-haw! And in a shorter amount of time than it actually took you to say “the daring book for girls,” the book was a best-seller. I see it everywhere—in malls, in the airport, in boutiques and specialty stores—and each time I do, I utter my own yee-haw for Miriam and Andrea! You go, girls!
When I posted about The Daring Book then, this is what I wrote:
I could basically write the same thing today about their sequel, The Double-Daring Book for Girls, which combines more wonderful activities, fascinating information--who doesn't like to read about volcanoes?--and glimpses into the lives of daring women throughout history (my favorite part of the book.) I love this book as much as I loved the first one, and now that Stella is a little older, we were able to really look at it and read it together. It’s going to be the perfect book to turn to this summer when the long days stretch before us.
In our house, it’s against the rules to use the word “bored.” And here I should clarify: Stella is not allowed to say it, but that doesn’t keep me from sometimes feeling it and/or spelling it out over the phone to a friend. My boredom—and I’m sure Stella’s, as well—arises from the age difference between my daughters. Zoë, at fifteen months, gets into everything, which limits the possibilities for crafty play when we’re all together.
And because “bored” has no place in our house, I was of course drawn to The Double-Daring Book's “What to Do When You’re Bored” page, which lists making blocks and having water balloon fights as possibilities. But what jumped off the page was #3: Make Beaded Safety Pins. Do any of you remember making these as grade-schoolers? We called them "friendship pins," and I remember trading them with my friends and clipping them onto my tennis shoes. But what I now realize--and maybe I knew this even then--is that I never made them correctly. On page 219, Miriam and Andrea write that there is a trick to making these: “you need to pry open the coil on the safety pin so you can push the beads onto the top part of the safety pin that doesn’t usually open up. Use a small screwdriver of a pair of long-nosed pliers to do this. When you’re done, close the coil back to its usual position so the beads will stay put.” How did I not know this?
I should have mentioned earlier that this post is more than just a post about the book: it’s a double-daring book shower. Instead of a blog book tour, The Double-Daring Book is having a book shower in which bloggers write about activities they tried from the book and challenge readers to best their score. Again, yee-haw!
Since Stella loves beads and could spend hours and hours making jewelry, I knew this was the perfect activity for us to try. (I also thought I could finally—now that I am almost 37 years old—learn to make a friendship pin properly.)
So Stella and I went to the craft store to stock up on supplies. A half hour and $23 later, we emerged with boxes of multi-colored beads, safety pins, and twine and more beads (for another project). When Zoë went down for her nap, we spread out our supplies on the floor, I found the pliers, and we got to work. What I didn’t anticipate, however, was that pulling apart the coil of a safety pin takes practice or that the beads we bought were maybe too tiny or that the pins we bought were maybe too thick or that once the beads were finally on the pins, it wouldn’t be the easiest thing to close the coil again. Okay, so I might be making excuses. This is what we created in one hour:
(The ones with the big clunky beads are mine. I understand why they didn't make the cut when Stella chose her three favorite pins. I actually told her I was making them for her, and she told me I could keep them for myself.)
What I want to know is whether you can do better than six friendship pins in an hour on your first try? I double-dare you!
There was one thing in the book scared me: the ability to dye one’s hair with Kool-Aid. I’m not nervous about the possibility of Stella doing this; I’m concerned about—and disgusted by—what all that Kool-Aid I consumed as a child has probably done to my organs. Anything that stains the way Miriam and Andrea describe on page 48 cannot be good for the operating system, and my sisters and I drank a gallon of this stuff—with extra sugar—every day for years and years!
I also have one question: can you really use abbreviations in Scrabble? Has the National Scrabble Association gone soft, allowing AD and AB?
Leave your friendship pin scores in the comments. I dare you. Come on, don't be scared. Are you chicken?
When I posted about The Daring Book then, this is what I wrote:
One of the things I love about The Daring Book is that it acknowledges the abilities and interests and achievements of girls and women today and of women throughout history. It’s not overtly feminist (the way I can, on occasion, be), but inherent in each of these pages is what feminism, to me, is all about.
In our house, it’s against the rules to use the word “bored.” And here I should clarify: Stella is not allowed to say it, but that doesn’t keep me from sometimes feeling it and/or spelling it out over the phone to a friend. My boredom—and I’m sure Stella’s, as well—arises from the age difference between my daughters. Zoë, at fifteen months, gets into everything, which limits the possibilities for crafty play when we’re all together.
And because “bored” has no place in our house, I was of course drawn to The Double-Daring Book's “What to Do When You’re Bored” page, which lists making blocks and having water balloon fights as possibilities. But what jumped off the page was #3: Make Beaded Safety Pins. Do any of you remember making these as grade-schoolers? We called them "friendship pins," and I remember trading them with my friends and clipping them onto my tennis shoes. But what I now realize--and maybe I knew this even then--is that I never made them correctly. On page 219, Miriam and Andrea write that there is a trick to making these: “you need to pry open the coil on the safety pin so you can push the beads onto the top part of the safety pin that doesn’t usually open up. Use a small screwdriver of a pair of long-nosed pliers to do this. When you’re done, close the coil back to its usual position so the beads will stay put.” How did I not know this?
I should have mentioned earlier that this post is more than just a post about the book: it’s a double-daring book shower. Instead of a blog book tour, The Double-Daring Book is having a book shower in which bloggers write about activities they tried from the book and challenge readers to best their score. Again, yee-haw!
Since Stella loves beads and could spend hours and hours making jewelry, I knew this was the perfect activity for us to try. (I also thought I could finally—now that I am almost 37 years old—learn to make a friendship pin properly.)
So Stella and I went to the craft store to stock up on supplies. A half hour and $23 later, we emerged with boxes of multi-colored beads, safety pins, and twine and more beads (for another project). When Zoë went down for her nap, we spread out our supplies on the floor, I found the pliers, and we got to work. What I didn’t anticipate, however, was that pulling apart the coil of a safety pin takes practice or that the beads we bought were maybe too tiny or that the pins we bought were maybe too thick or that once the beads were finally on the pins, it wouldn’t be the easiest thing to close the coil again. Okay, so I might be making excuses. This is what we created in one hour:
(The ones with the big clunky beads are mine. I understand why they didn't make the cut when Stella chose her three favorite pins. I actually told her I was making them for her, and she told me I could keep them for myself.)
What I want to know is whether you can do better than six friendship pins in an hour on your first try? I double-dare you!
There was one thing in the book scared me: the ability to dye one’s hair with Kool-Aid. I’m not nervous about the possibility of Stella doing this; I’m concerned about—and disgusted by—what all that Kool-Aid I consumed as a child has probably done to my organs. Anything that stains the way Miriam and Andrea describe on page 48 cannot be good for the operating system, and my sisters and I drank a gallon of this stuff—with extra sugar—every day for years and years!
I also have one question: can you really use abbreviations in Scrabble? Has the National Scrabble Association gone soft, allowing AD and AB?
Leave your friendship pin scores in the comments. I dare you. Come on, don't be scared. Are you chicken?
Friday, April 3, 2009
the personal, the political
There is something that’s been bubbling under the surface these last few weeks, something born from a combination of anger and fear and hope. I’ve been reading Shari MacDonald Strong’s The Maternal is Political and Caroline Grant’s and Elrena Evan’s Mama, PhD. How amazing to read these books side by side. There is power there, between them. I can almost see it, like a charge of electricity, reaching from one anthology to the other, bridging distance and time and experience. And as so often happens to me when I’m reading, once thoughts begin to percolate, more writing pops up to speak to me, and connections are made. I want to direct you to a friend’s blog. A couple of days ago, Lynne Marie wrote a post called “Mind Body Mama: Get Your Self Defense On.” This is how her post begins:
A good thing, indeed. If you want to read Lynne Marie’s full post, visit her blog, Mind Body Mama. I’ll be writing more about The Maternal is Political and Mama, PhD in the next few weeks, but in the meantime, I’m going to get my self-defense on. How about you?
“I’ve been thinking about instincts this week. And how mine are fundamentally altered by my twenty-one year practice of self defense.
It wasn’t long ago that I congratulated a sister martial artist on practicing “kick-ass self defense” when she stood up for herself in a professional situation. I don’t know her well enough to interpret her surprise at that nomenclature, but she did sound surprised. I fear she shares the misapprehension that it doesn’t count as self defense unless there’s some kind of physical beat-down, or at least a physical threat. I hear that a lot.
Self defense is what we do to take care of ourselves and the people we love. In the very best cases it’s what we do before or instead of getting hurt. Lots of times it’s what we do in the midst of being attacked—emotionally, spiritually, sexually or physically. And too often it’s what we have to do after we’ve been hurt: the long road of healing and taking action so that the same hurt doesn’t happen again to ourselves or others.
Twenty-one years studying martial arts and self defense in a feminist, social-justice, anti-racist and anti-violence context has changed me. I don’t think like normal people any more. That’s a good thing.”
A good thing, indeed. If you want to read Lynne Marie’s full post, visit her blog, Mind Body Mama. I’ll be writing more about The Maternal is Political and Mama, PhD in the next few weeks, but in the meantime, I’m going to get my self-defense on. How about you?
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
mothertalk blog tour: the daring book for girls
In May, I participated in MotherTalk’s blog bonanza for Conn and Hal Iggulden’s The Dangerous Book for Boys. Now, I hadn’t actually read the book—I’m not a boy and I don’t have a boy, which of course you all know—but I was inspired by MotherTalk’s prompts: recall your own childhoods and describe some of the dangerous or daring things you did, describe how your own kids’ lives are different, etc. One of their questions was what would a dangerous book for girls look like? Miriam Peskowitz and Andrea Buchanan clearly saw the need for such a book, and in Peskowitz’s own blog posts from that week, she focused on the ways in which her daughter was becoming daring.
Well, Peskowitz and Buchanan signed a contract with HarperCollins at the end of May and now, a mere five months later, their book is on the shelves of bookstores across the county. Five months, people. That’s crazy talk. This, of course, makes me feel slightly pathetic about my recent I’m-not-writing-so-cry-me-a-river posts, but I’ll put those feelings aside for a moment so I can focus on their book, which clearly rocks. (I do suppose there is nothing like a book contract to light a fire under one’s ass.)
The Daring Book for Girls is a manual, a how-to for hundreds of activities and games in which girls have participated (or not participated) over the centuries and across the world. But it’s more than a manual; it’s an inspiration. Peppered throughout the book are sections about women throughout history: ancient queens, women in the Olympics, women inventors and scientists, and female pirates, to name just a few. I either did not know much of this information—who knew that Julia Child had been a spy prior to her cooking fame?—or I learned it at one point and promptly forgot it. How could I forget that Queen Boudica, the Celt, rose up against the Romans in Britain, burning city after city in an attempt to purge her country of oppression?
Over the last week, I’ve dreamt of Artemisia and Cleopatra, women battling on the high seas. I’ve dreamt of Queen Salome of Judea, keeping peace while the nations around her fell into destruction. I’ve dreamt of worlds in which women were seen as leaders and respected as such.
How disheartening that this week I was also reading about how young women writers in America struggle to find their voices, struggle to trust their authority, and are afraid to be "too sure of themselves" for fear of being punished by society. For a local meeting of women in journalism, I also read a recent “Media Report to Women,” which reports that women are just 14% of the guests on Sunday morning public affairs programs; that women in Congress receive fewer articles, mentions, and quotes in newspapers than their male counterparts; that although women have been the majority of college journalism majors since 1977, male-to-female byline ratios (in an analysis of magazines published 2003-2005) range from 13-1 at The National Review to 7-1 at Harper’s to 2-1 at The Columbia Journalism Review.
There are some women (and certainly many men) who are afraid of the word 'feminism.' It seems to bring to mind images of butch women who hate men joining forces of estrogen power to conquer the world and make men obsolete. But isn’t feminism really about acknowledging the power and ability of all women, and making sure that we have the same opportunities (and receive the same respect and pay) as men?
One of the things I love about The Daring Book is that it acknowledges the abilities and interests and achievements of girls and women today and of women throughout history. It’s not overtly feminist (the way I can, on occasion, be), but inherent in each of these pages is what feminism, to me, is all about.
Don’t we all hope that our daughters will step out and embrace the world, that they will face challenges and meet them, that they will believe in themselves? I want Stella (and her soon-to-be little sister) to feel secure in their skin, to be strong and confident. I want them to be happy.
The Daring Book can help girls (and their mothers) be these things. It’s filled with hours and hours of outdoor and indoor activities, backed up with history and the idea that all girls can accomplish what they set their minds to. On page one, there is an outline of the essential gear that all daring girls should have. #12 is patience: “It’s a quality and not a thing, but it’s essential so we’ll include it here. Forget perfect on the first try. In the face of frustration, your best tool is a few deep breaths, and remembering that you can do anything once you’ve practiced two hundred times. Seriously.”
How often did I not try something new because I didn’t think I could do it? How often did I fail to push myself to keep trying, keep going after I had failed at something? I could have used #12 as a girl, and I can use it now. I won’t forget to remind Stella of its importance.
Mothers and daughters alike will love this book. Some parts are, for now, too advanced for Stella, but there are pages I’m going to Xerox and put in the kitchen—you’ll know what I mean when you read it—and other pages I’ll go back to again and again.
And really, how could a book that spells out how to make a clock run on the juice of two lemons not rock? I’m glad I have a hard-cover copy of the book because I know it will get dragged through the house and generally beaten up over the next ten or fifteen years. It’s going to need to last.
Check this book out, and read what other bloggers have to say about the book at MotherTalk!
Well, Peskowitz and Buchanan signed a contract with HarperCollins at the end of May and now, a mere five months later, their book is on the shelves of bookstores across the county. Five months, people. That’s crazy talk. This, of course, makes me feel slightly pathetic about my recent I’m-not-writing-so-cry-me-a-river posts, but I’ll put those feelings aside for a moment so I can focus on their book, which clearly rocks. (I do suppose there is nothing like a book contract to light a fire under one’s ass.)
The Daring Book for Girls is a manual, a how-to for hundreds of activities and games in which girls have participated (or not participated) over the centuries and across the world. But it’s more than a manual; it’s an inspiration. Peppered throughout the book are sections about women throughout history: ancient queens, women in the Olympics, women inventors and scientists, and female pirates, to name just a few. I either did not know much of this information—who knew that Julia Child had been a spy prior to her cooking fame?—or I learned it at one point and promptly forgot it. How could I forget that Queen Boudica, the Celt, rose up against the Romans in Britain, burning city after city in an attempt to purge her country of oppression?
Over the last week, I’ve dreamt of Artemisia and Cleopatra, women battling on the high seas. I’ve dreamt of Queen Salome of Judea, keeping peace while the nations around her fell into destruction. I’ve dreamt of worlds in which women were seen as leaders and respected as such.
How disheartening that this week I was also reading about how young women writers in America struggle to find their voices, struggle to trust their authority, and are afraid to be "too sure of themselves" for fear of being punished by society. For a local meeting of women in journalism, I also read a recent “Media Report to Women,” which reports that women are just 14% of the guests on Sunday morning public affairs programs; that women in Congress receive fewer articles, mentions, and quotes in newspapers than their male counterparts; that although women have been the majority of college journalism majors since 1977, male-to-female byline ratios (in an analysis of magazines published 2003-2005) range from 13-1 at The National Review to 7-1 at Harper’s to 2-1 at The Columbia Journalism Review.
There are some women (and certainly many men) who are afraid of the word 'feminism.' It seems to bring to mind images of butch women who hate men joining forces of estrogen power to conquer the world and make men obsolete. But isn’t feminism really about acknowledging the power and ability of all women, and making sure that we have the same opportunities (and receive the same respect and pay) as men?
One of the things I love about The Daring Book is that it acknowledges the abilities and interests and achievements of girls and women today and of women throughout history. It’s not overtly feminist (the way I can, on occasion, be), but inherent in each of these pages is what feminism, to me, is all about.
Don’t we all hope that our daughters will step out and embrace the world, that they will face challenges and meet them, that they will believe in themselves? I want Stella (and her soon-to-be little sister) to feel secure in their skin, to be strong and confident. I want them to be happy.
The Daring Book can help girls (and their mothers) be these things. It’s filled with hours and hours of outdoor and indoor activities, backed up with history and the idea that all girls can accomplish what they set their minds to. On page one, there is an outline of the essential gear that all daring girls should have. #12 is patience: “It’s a quality and not a thing, but it’s essential so we’ll include it here. Forget perfect on the first try. In the face of frustration, your best tool is a few deep breaths, and remembering that you can do anything once you’ve practiced two hundred times. Seriously.”
How often did I not try something new because I didn’t think I could do it? How often did I fail to push myself to keep trying, keep going after I had failed at something? I could have used #12 as a girl, and I can use it now. I won’t forget to remind Stella of its importance.
Mothers and daughters alike will love this book. Some parts are, for now, too advanced for Stella, but there are pages I’m going to Xerox and put in the kitchen—you’ll know what I mean when you read it—and other pages I’ll go back to again and again.
And really, how could a book that spells out how to make a clock run on the juice of two lemons not rock? I’m glad I have a hard-cover copy of the book because I know it will get dragged through the house and generally beaten up over the next ten or fifteen years. It’s going to need to last.
Check this book out, and read what other bloggers have to say about the book at MotherTalk!
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
how hard must you look?
On Sunday afternoon I went to see The Mother Project at the Open Eye Figure Theatre in Minneapolis. It was a six woman production, directed by Augsburg College theater professor Darcey Engen, in which the women’s stories about motherhood, relationships, identity, grief, their careers, and how they balance art and work and motherhood were woven together on stage. Their stories were often funny and often moving, and the response to the performance was so heartening. The darkened theater was packed, and after the show, Nanci Olesen, one of the performers and MOMbo founder, conducted a Q & A. So many of the audience’s responses began with “I could totally relate to this...” and “Thank you for your honest portrayal of motherhood.” Over and over again people said how much they appreciated the actors’ honesty and nuanced look at parenting and life.
What I came away with was a great sense of validation: yes, people need to hear the real stories of motherhood—the dark ones, the ambivalent ones, the deliciously touching ones. (This selfishly translated into: see, there is a market for my book.)
How disappointing it was to then read the recent Newsweek article by Kathleen Deveny. A friend had mentioned the article to me, saying that the author had bagged motherhood literature, and unfortunately, I wasn’t surprised. How harsh critics are when the personal becomes public, when women write against the norm and debunk those glorious myths of motherhood. Blah.
In her article, Deveny seems to trash all motherhood literature, all at once. She says, “I am bored to death with talking, hearing and reading about motherhood.” Oh gag me with a spoon, Kathleen.
She bags researched nonfiction and the summer's "mommy-lit" novels (her language, not mine). She doesn't mention memoir, specifically, but you get the impression that it's included in her rant, as well. But this is where Deveny's article really falls short. Is she not reading the same literature (and I spell that word out, dammit) that I am?
Almost all the motherhood literature I’ve read (and though I certainly haven’t read it all, I’ve read enough to make some generalized statements about it), is about more than the minutiae of daily life with an infant or toddler or teenager. It is about more than what an average parent does on a day-to-day basis. Most of the motherhood literature I’ve read, like the pieces in The Motherhood Project, deal with issues of identity, loss and longing, neurosis and fear, ambivalence and joy (the things of life). These pieces are about transformation and how we see ourselves in relation to the world in which we live. Oh I’m sorry, did it sound like I was talking about something universal, like I was talking about “regular” literature? Uh, yeah.
Finding in one’s own experience something universal and being able to turn that into art is not narcissistic (which is how Deveny characterizes women writing about motherhood). It's the work of writers. I love what memoirist Patricia Hampl says: “True memoir is written, like all literature, in an attempt to find not only a self but a world.”
But when your subject has do with motherhood, people assume that there is no story other than changing diapers, nursing, and tackling toddler challenges. This reminds me of what the poet Deborah Garrison said when I interviewed her for mamazine. When I asked her whether she thought her second collection, which is focused around parenting themes, was taken as seriously as her first collection, she said, "I think that motherhood as a subject can blind people. They are distracted by it—they have ideas about what motherhood poetry should or shouldn't be—and sometimes they can't get past this to really see the way a poem was constructed." I'm afraid the same thing is true for all motherhood literature. People have ideas about what it is or will be and dismiss it out of hand.
But how hard must you look to find really amazing writing that has to do with motherhood? Um, not very far. If you've read 1/4 of the essays or stories or poems I've posted about on this blog, you know. And I'm wondering now, should I send Kathleen Deveny the essays of my favorite mama writers? Could it be that she hasn't read them?
Sadly, she would probably stack them with her other "mommy-lit," thinking, erroneously, that she'd read it all before.
What I came away with was a great sense of validation: yes, people need to hear the real stories of motherhood—the dark ones, the ambivalent ones, the deliciously touching ones. (This selfishly translated into: see, there is a market for my book.)
How disappointing it was to then read the recent Newsweek article by Kathleen Deveny. A friend had mentioned the article to me, saying that the author had bagged motherhood literature, and unfortunately, I wasn’t surprised. How harsh critics are when the personal becomes public, when women write against the norm and debunk those glorious myths of motherhood. Blah.
In her article, Deveny seems to trash all motherhood literature, all at once. She says, “I am bored to death with talking, hearing and reading about motherhood.” Oh gag me with a spoon, Kathleen.
She bags researched nonfiction and the summer's "mommy-lit" novels (her language, not mine). She doesn't mention memoir, specifically, but you get the impression that it's included in her rant, as well. But this is where Deveny's article really falls short. Is she not reading the same literature (and I spell that word out, dammit) that I am?
Almost all the motherhood literature I’ve read (and though I certainly haven’t read it all, I’ve read enough to make some generalized statements about it), is about more than the minutiae of daily life with an infant or toddler or teenager. It is about more than what an average parent does on a day-to-day basis. Most of the motherhood literature I’ve read, like the pieces in The Motherhood Project, deal with issues of identity, loss and longing, neurosis and fear, ambivalence and joy (the things of life). These pieces are about transformation and how we see ourselves in relation to the world in which we live. Oh I’m sorry, did it sound like I was talking about something universal, like I was talking about “regular” literature? Uh, yeah.
Finding in one’s own experience something universal and being able to turn that into art is not narcissistic (which is how Deveny characterizes women writing about motherhood). It's the work of writers. I love what memoirist Patricia Hampl says: “True memoir is written, like all literature, in an attempt to find not only a self but a world.”
But when your subject has do with motherhood, people assume that there is no story other than changing diapers, nursing, and tackling toddler challenges. This reminds me of what the poet Deborah Garrison said when I interviewed her for mamazine. When I asked her whether she thought her second collection, which is focused around parenting themes, was taken as seriously as her first collection, she said, "I think that motherhood as a subject can blind people. They are distracted by it—they have ideas about what motherhood poetry should or shouldn't be—and sometimes they can't get past this to really see the way a poem was constructed." I'm afraid the same thing is true for all motherhood literature. People have ideas about what it is or will be and dismiss it out of hand.
But how hard must you look to find really amazing writing that has to do with motherhood? Um, not very far. If you've read 1/4 of the essays or stories or poems I've posted about on this blog, you know. And I'm wondering now, should I send Kathleen Deveny the essays of my favorite mama writers? Could it be that she hasn't read them?
Sadly, she would probably stack them with her other "mommy-lit," thinking, erroneously, that she'd read it all before.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
a thought from anne and a dream
Last night I went to see Anne Lamott discuss her new book, Grace (Eventually). She was reading at Barnes and Noble in a fancy schmancy suburban mall, and the place was packed. Seriously—hundreds of people lined the aisles, trying to get a glimpse of Anne and her crazy dreadlocks. (The fifty or so people who actually got seats had been there, waiting, for two hours!)
My questions: Did B&N not expect so many people? Did they not care? I don’t know. But all those bodies in such a small space made it excruciatingly hot, and of course, since it’s been an annoyingly cold April, I was dressed for winter: a heavy sweater and jeans. Sweat was, literally, dripping down my back for the better part of two hours. (I know—TMI.)
Still, it was worth it. I had never seen her read or speak, and she was exactly what I expected: funny, self-deprecating, irreverent, political. She read a chapter about forgiveness, made us laugh, and answered questions and just talked. The thing she said that struck me most was this: “It is an act of resistance to demand the right to be heard.”
I’m sure she said lots of other wonderful things last night, but that is the one thing that stuck with me because I’ve been thinking about this, how hard it often is (and how hard it has been) for women to find a public voice, to find the courage to speak about private things in a public sphere, or to speak at all.
Last Saturday night, I got into an argument with a friend. (Argument is maybe an understatement, but I’ll get to that in a minute.) D. and I were at our friends’ house because they were having a small get-together. Well into the evening, the husband starting talking about how hard it is for women these days if, after a graduate degree or two, they decide to stay home with their kids. Everyone judges them. (This happened to his wife.) Wasn’t it easier, he said, when there weren’t so many expectations on women? (Meaning to me: when we were expected to stay home and take care of the kids and not have careers at all.)
Of course, there is only a small portion of our society that can afford to make this decision, and I know they are often judged for it. I also know that women who go to work when they could stay home are judged just as harshly. (I’ve seen as much Parenting surveys.)
I flipped out on my friend. Seriously, screaming. The thing that made me so angry was his assumption (or so I gathered) that because the general public and men didn’t hear about the struggles women had (because these were private struggles, because we didn’t have the options we have today, and because we weren’t allowed a public voice), that these struggles didn’t exist.
Should women be judged for deciding to stay home or work—of course not. But I’ll take that—as I flip the f***ers off—rather than not having the choice. I think about how hard my first year as a mother was, and I can guarantee that I wouldn’t have made it through if it were not for my writing, for poetry, and for the promise of returning to graduate school in the fall. If I thought the crying, the reflux, the lack of sleep, and the constant worry was going to be it, I don’t know what I would have done, really.
I would not feel whole if I didn’t write, but I didn’t even realize I wanted to write until I was in my late twenties. And this is what I imagine: in 1950, I married a man. I stayed home with the kids. I was fine, probably, but was there ever an emptiness? Did I ever wonder what if?
I have to return to Adrienne Rich here, even though I recently posted about her. In Of Woman Born she writes: “I have a very clear, keen memory of myself the day after I was married: I was sweeping a floor. Probably the floor did not really need to be swept; probably I simply did not know what else to do with myself. But as I swept that floor I thought: ‘Now I am a woman. This is an age-old action, this is what women have always done.’ I felt I was bending to some ancient form, too ancient to question. This is what women have always done.”
She writes: “I became a mother in the family-centered, consumer-oriented, Freudian-American world of the 1950s. My husband spoke eagerly of the children we would have; my parents-in-law awaited the birth of their grandchild. I had no idea of what I wanted, what I could or could not choose. I only knew that to have a child was to assume adult womanhood to the full, to prove myself, to be ‘like other women.’”
Don’t ever tell me that we’re worse off.
This is my dream: that all women can someday make these choices for themselves and for their families. That all women have the space and resources to discover their hearts. That all women someday demand the right to be heard.
My questions: Did B&N not expect so many people? Did they not care? I don’t know. But all those bodies in such a small space made it excruciatingly hot, and of course, since it’s been an annoyingly cold April, I was dressed for winter: a heavy sweater and jeans. Sweat was, literally, dripping down my back for the better part of two hours. (I know—TMI.)
Still, it was worth it. I had never seen her read or speak, and she was exactly what I expected: funny, self-deprecating, irreverent, political. She read a chapter about forgiveness, made us laugh, and answered questions and just talked. The thing she said that struck me most was this: “It is an act of resistance to demand the right to be heard.”
I’m sure she said lots of other wonderful things last night, but that is the one thing that stuck with me because I’ve been thinking about this, how hard it often is (and how hard it has been) for women to find a public voice, to find the courage to speak about private things in a public sphere, or to speak at all.
Last Saturday night, I got into an argument with a friend. (Argument is maybe an understatement, but I’ll get to that in a minute.) D. and I were at our friends’ house because they were having a small get-together. Well into the evening, the husband starting talking about how hard it is for women these days if, after a graduate degree or two, they decide to stay home with their kids. Everyone judges them. (This happened to his wife.) Wasn’t it easier, he said, when there weren’t so many expectations on women? (Meaning to me: when we were expected to stay home and take care of the kids and not have careers at all.)
Of course, there is only a small portion of our society that can afford to make this decision, and I know they are often judged for it. I also know that women who go to work when they could stay home are judged just as harshly. (I’ve seen as much Parenting surveys.)
I flipped out on my friend. Seriously, screaming. The thing that made me so angry was his assumption (or so I gathered) that because the general public and men didn’t hear about the struggles women had (because these were private struggles, because we didn’t have the options we have today, and because we weren’t allowed a public voice), that these struggles didn’t exist.
Should women be judged for deciding to stay home or work—of course not. But I’ll take that—as I flip the f***ers off—rather than not having the choice. I think about how hard my first year as a mother was, and I can guarantee that I wouldn’t have made it through if it were not for my writing, for poetry, and for the promise of returning to graduate school in the fall. If I thought the crying, the reflux, the lack of sleep, and the constant worry was going to be it, I don’t know what I would have done, really.
I would not feel whole if I didn’t write, but I didn’t even realize I wanted to write until I was in my late twenties. And this is what I imagine: in 1950, I married a man. I stayed home with the kids. I was fine, probably, but was there ever an emptiness? Did I ever wonder what if?
I have to return to Adrienne Rich here, even though I recently posted about her. In Of Woman Born she writes: “I have a very clear, keen memory of myself the day after I was married: I was sweeping a floor. Probably the floor did not really need to be swept; probably I simply did not know what else to do with myself. But as I swept that floor I thought: ‘Now I am a woman. This is an age-old action, this is what women have always done.’ I felt I was bending to some ancient form, too ancient to question. This is what women have always done.”
She writes: “I became a mother in the family-centered, consumer-oriented, Freudian-American world of the 1950s. My husband spoke eagerly of the children we would have; my parents-in-law awaited the birth of their grandchild. I had no idea of what I wanted, what I could or could not choose. I only knew that to have a child was to assume adult womanhood to the full, to prove myself, to be ‘like other women.’”
Don’t ever tell me that we’re worse off.
This is my dream: that all women can someday make these choices for themselves and for their families. That all women have the space and resources to discover their hearts. That all women someday demand the right to be heard.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
four decades of feminist mamas
In my class this week we read Miriam Peskowitz’s “Cheerleader” and an excerpt of Adrienne Rich’s Of Woman Born. We’ve now read motherhood pieces published in the 70’s, 80’s, 90’s, and today, and I’m very interested in how the concerns and struggles of women and mothers have changed over the last forty years and how they have remained, largely, the same.
In Of Woman Born, Rich uses journal entries from the 50’s, 60’s and 70’s, and reflects on her feelings of anger and ambivalence towards motherhood and her children. She talks about how her writing was not considered the real work in her family, though she had published two books of poetry by that point. She struggles to make room for her needs as a writer and poet when these needs, and her skills, are not taken as seriously as her role and responsibilities as a mother.
Ronnie Sandroff’s and Jane Shapiro’s pieces, from Mothers, are written from an 80’s feminist perspective. About her story “You’ll Be Crying in a Minute,” Sandroff says: “This was written at a time when motherhood was out of fashion amid all the excitement over women entering and succeeding in the workplace. Those of us who were pioneering working moms got plenty of encouragement for our career advancement, but no acknowledgement for the incredible emotional labor involved in parenting.”
In “Cheerleader,” published in It’s a Girl, Peskowitz is struggles with her young daughter’s obsession with cheerleading. (Peskowitz is also the author of The Truth Behind the Mommy Wars, which is on my reading list.) She moves beyond her personal experience with her daughter to engage in a larger political and gender equity discussion, but the heart of the essay is this: “how do I let my daughter navigate her own world without revisiting the scars of mine?”
I can relate to all of these writers, have felt the anger and frustration of being a mother who writes. I have worried that no one takes me seriously. (I am not exactly bringing home the bacon.) I try not to talk about Stella when I’m around other writers who don’t have children. (God forbid they think I actually like parenting—most of the time.) I have the same worries as Peskowitz. I want Stella to grow up a strong woman, a feminist, but I don't want to squelch her interests, her love of pink and princesses. And I wonder: how do I let Stella navigate her world without imposing my fears and struggles on her?
There is a passage in “Cheerleader” that I love. Peskowitz writes about taking her one-year old daughter into a café in 1999 and seeing, on the television, the final of the Women’s World Cup, in which Brandi Chastain rips off her shirt after the US wins. Peskowitz says: “I’m in tears. I can’t help it. Watching women win, watching women take center stage and work hard and sweat and be thrilled and filled with wonder when they succeed, lifting their arms overhead—not with a forced, pretty smile, but with proud, accomplished eyes—that does it for me.”
I can totally relate to this. I have recently become a runner. I’m not very fast, and in fact I think people are often surprised by how much I love it even though I’m so slow. But I do love it: running along the river road when the sun is shining and it’s spring and tons of people are outside. And I love to watch other runners. At marathons, I wait impatiently for the winners, those marathoners with bodies that defy nature. The male runners inspire awe, certainly, but it’s the female runners that make me cry.
When the first women runners pass me with their arms pumping, all sinew and strength, my throat tightens. For a moment I try not to break down, but I can’t help myself. I start thinking about all that women do—and are—all that we’re up against and all we accomplish, and it feels as though these women, these runners, are proving something, for me, for all of us. I hold Stella high in my arms and jump with her, screaming, “Aren’t they amazing? Isn’t that amazing? See what you can do!”
Isn’t that what we all want for our children?
In Of Woman Born, Rich uses journal entries from the 50’s, 60’s and 70’s, and reflects on her feelings of anger and ambivalence towards motherhood and her children. She talks about how her writing was not considered the real work in her family, though she had published two books of poetry by that point. She struggles to make room for her needs as a writer and poet when these needs, and her skills, are not taken as seriously as her role and responsibilities as a mother.
Ronnie Sandroff’s and Jane Shapiro’s pieces, from Mothers, are written from an 80’s feminist perspective. About her story “You’ll Be Crying in a Minute,” Sandroff says: “This was written at a time when motherhood was out of fashion amid all the excitement over women entering and succeeding in the workplace. Those of us who were pioneering working moms got plenty of encouragement for our career advancement, but no acknowledgement for the incredible emotional labor involved in parenting.”
In “Cheerleader,” published in It’s a Girl, Peskowitz is struggles with her young daughter’s obsession with cheerleading. (Peskowitz is also the author of The Truth Behind the Mommy Wars, which is on my reading list.) She moves beyond her personal experience with her daughter to engage in a larger political and gender equity discussion, but the heart of the essay is this: “how do I let my daughter navigate her own world without revisiting the scars of mine?”
I can relate to all of these writers, have felt the anger and frustration of being a mother who writes. I have worried that no one takes me seriously. (I am not exactly bringing home the bacon.) I try not to talk about Stella when I’m around other writers who don’t have children. (God forbid they think I actually like parenting—most of the time.) I have the same worries as Peskowitz. I want Stella to grow up a strong woman, a feminist, but I don't want to squelch her interests, her love of pink and princesses. And I wonder: how do I let Stella navigate her world without imposing my fears and struggles on her?
There is a passage in “Cheerleader” that I love. Peskowitz writes about taking her one-year old daughter into a café in 1999 and seeing, on the television, the final of the Women’s World Cup, in which Brandi Chastain rips off her shirt after the US wins. Peskowitz says: “I’m in tears. I can’t help it. Watching women win, watching women take center stage and work hard and sweat and be thrilled and filled with wonder when they succeed, lifting their arms overhead—not with a forced, pretty smile, but with proud, accomplished eyes—that does it for me.”
I can totally relate to this. I have recently become a runner. I’m not very fast, and in fact I think people are often surprised by how much I love it even though I’m so slow. But I do love it: running along the river road when the sun is shining and it’s spring and tons of people are outside. And I love to watch other runners. At marathons, I wait impatiently for the winners, those marathoners with bodies that defy nature. The male runners inspire awe, certainly, but it’s the female runners that make me cry.
When the first women runners pass me with their arms pumping, all sinew and strength, my throat tightens. For a moment I try not to break down, but I can’t help myself. I start thinking about all that women do—and are—all that we’re up against and all we accomplish, and it feels as though these women, these runners, are proving something, for me, for all of us. I hold Stella high in my arms and jump with her, screaming, “Aren’t they amazing? Isn’t that amazing? See what you can do!”
Isn’t that what we all want for our children?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
