Library Card Sign-Up Month
Reading ‘Round the Blogosphere
For Your Journal: Writing Prompt
Literary Mama Rewind: Science
Our first grader looks at a welcome sign near the school library. The sign features cartoon drawings of several children, each with different features.
Our daughter asks which child I think she looks like. I say she resembles the girl with light brown hair. She counters that she might look like the girl with black hair. That girl’s eyes are drawn as horizontal ovals, while the other children’s eyes are vertical ovals. That girl could be Japanese.
Help me before I run away. All day, every day, someone is tugging at my sleeve. It’s all “I’m hungry!” or “He’s grabbing!” or “Look at me! Look at me! Look at me!” Then, when it’s not my kids, it’s my husband, venting about his job (so boring) or talking about football (again, boring). It never, never stops.
Attention seeking is what the note from the teacher said. Along with impulse control issues.
Behavior that is inappropriate and annoying.
Hear the mother swallow her lost daughter.
Hear the wind lowing
in the burdened leaves of fall.
At eighteen, she sings as if she’s been alive for centuries–a voice
filled with old sorrow and flowers, the lost child on the twisted street,
the woman in a doorway with her hand on her brow…
I was the gateless gate
my job to gentle you
without your knowing
She is in all the particulars
One little sock left in the lint basket…
As I watch you turtle-
backed go down the hill
to catch the bus I wish
you had a Joey in your
life to go with you…
In aisle two, your four children run around you in circles, bouncing and jumping between leaning towers of grape-extract-infused conditioner and columns of hair serum that promise to make your frizzy hair miraculously smooth.
Sarah Kessler had her first real encounter with Rick Wolfson when he hit her leg with his gym bag at the West Side Nursery School. She had noticed him before of course, not because he was particularly handsome but because he had dark eyes and reckless hair and the sweaty intensity of an unsatisfied appetite. That Rick was married to a small-busted and well-assembled Wall Street banker who seemed unworthy of her husband’s bohemian charm only increased his value. As Sarah knew from experience, it was easier to fantasize about unhappy men.
This month, our editors (and a columnist!) are ruminating specifically on the theme of Beauty: the physical, human kind, but also the kind of beauty that takes us out of ourselves.
In the summer of 1996, I interviewed a famous Italian poet, Mirella Bentivoglio, then 74 years old. I had long admired Bentivoglio’s ability to match her creative career with tremendous amounts of critical work (mainly aimed at supporting women artists), all while a mother of three. I was curious about her strategies and about the source of her exceptional balance and strength. Most importantly, I wanted to explore the nature of her mothering choice, and I hoped that she would share her memories with me.
Pregnancy and childbirth provide a glimpse of ourselves at our most elemental. There is no room for inauthenticity or the masks of politeness that we wear daily. There is only the experience—a ride that grips, lifts us into a mighty …