This newsletter is best read in the substack app. If you are reading this in your email you might not see the whole thing. Make sure to click “view entire message”

Subscribe below! and if you like it please share :))

this post contains links to our new children’s consignment store small talk city <3 please considering filling out our customer survey for 15% off your order xoxo thank you for your support!

IF YOU GIVE A MOUSE A COOKIE

by Laura Numeroff and Felicia Bond

In this classic, a mouse asks for a cookie. Once the mouse is given the cookie, he asks for a glass of milk, which ends up leading to a series of additional requests. Each event that occurs makes the mouse want something new, creating a seemingly endless stream of demands and a big ‘ol mess.

MOTHERHOOD

by If You Give a Mouse a Cookie

Do you live close to your family of origin?

I don't. I live like 3,000 miles away.

So, when they come to town for a special event—say a first birthday—it is a wonderful whirlwind that creates in me a seemingly endless stream of desires and demands, and one thing leads to another and boy oh boy do I love to make a big 'ol mess!

…

It's the joy of my life to be surrounded by community, especially my family. Taking good care of them feels like my purpose. Whatever that means, I'm still learning to take good care of myself.

But I pride myself on being a liaison to guide family and friends to the best possible version of their experience and I get SO excited to host!

In fact, I get so excited sometimes I over-plan, over-schedule, and overdo it. For me. For them. For everyone.

A primitive version of myself takes hold.

Over the years, I've learned to slow down. Release the pressure.

Relax the perineum.

Stay present. Give people space. Make room for "relaxing," whatever that means.

and I see the benefit in all of that but nevertheless

There’s so much to do! so sometimes I move too fast.

Who can slow down? There’s so much to do!

And I have high expectations of myself. Why? Because I care about excellence. Because I want to be the best and give the best. I want people to experience the best.

and because there’s just nothing worse in the whole wide world than having a bad or mediocre meal.

Amirite?

When my family comes to visit, food is always the biggest logistical nightmare.

For a group that includes babies, grandparents, and many moving parts, you have to plan the meals out or you're left with hangry folks — far from home — raiding your snack cabinets

and googling "best Mexican in Berkeley." Or worse, making suggestions on what to eat in your own town.

How could you stand it?

(Plus, let's be honest, it's your time to show everyone just how great where you live is and what better way to convince all your family members to abandon their lives and goals and move down the street from you than to tantalize them with the best faire your town offers. OY!)

…

The point is, no one is coming to visit and having a mediocre meal.

I can't stand it!

And maybe that's too much already. The pressure to impress. To host! To win the affection of all through knowledge and organization.

Still, a month ago when I knew it would be Friday February 14th, aka Valentine’s when I had the most people visiting, I panicked.

Should I cook? NO. I’m hosting my daughter’s 1st birthday the following morning.

Then I thought, ah yes, hot pot. Perfect.

…

And I was right. The hot pot spot was thrilled to have our big reservation.

This was a good call. Great job planning.

This would’ve been enough.

…

But

a month later, when it was Friday February 14th, and all my guests were texting and asking what the plan for dinner was, I was THRILLED to send the address to the delish hot pot spot and report to all considered that the reservation was under my name.

Nice work, me.

This would’ve been enough!

…

But when I found myself comfortably seated with everyone I love, everyone who had traveled and made the effort to mark my daughter’s first birthday — I could've (should've?) taken a deep breath and focused on — oh, I don't know — anything.

But unfortunately, that primitive thing kicked in and I started to "over-gig."

…

My husband coined over-gigging to alert you when the scales tip away from "helpful" and lean into "too much."

It's a fine fucking line, my friends.

..

For many reasons,

I just couldn't accept that I had done the thing, and now it was time to enjoy it.

At 5pm on Valentine's, sandwiched between my parents and their spouses and my siblings and children, I could only notice one thing — we hadn’t ordered yet.

Where's the waiter? We need to order! Food! Get the FOOD! lot’s of food! HURRY!

so I made a whole scene and finally got a waiter.

and when I look back at this moment, I think — after I had the good idea, made the reservation, invited everyone, made it on time, sat down, and got the waiter, that would've been more than enough. I could've stopped there. I needed to stop there.

My husband tried to help me stop there, but I wouldn't be stopped! No.

Instead I proceeded to

order for the table.

(sigh)

…

Ordering for the table is an art and should only be done by a highly skilled, very present, super calm individual. I was none of these things.

…

The wings paraded out first. Basket after basket after basket of wings. Dozens and dozens. My parents rolled their eyes, my sister gagged, my brother-in-law saddled up. My husband was horrified, and I fell down a shame spiral so long I am still emerging.

Later, after I had arrested visiting friends, neighbors, hotel ridden family members, and an unfortunate soul making their home on the street outside of the restaurant with alllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll 30 bags of leftovers — I finally did the math — just for the wings.

120 chicken wings

which comes out to 8 chicken wings per person (including the baby).

Not insane if chicken wings are the entire meal. Right? I mean, you can eat 5-6 chicken wings. Can’t you?

But it's a totally insane amount of chicken wings if that headcount includes toddlers and the wings are meant to be an appetizer which no one at the table asked for to begin with!

Oh, man.

…

At some point in a haze of chewing my family tried to defend me by asking the waitstaff why they didn't say, "Hey, that's a lot of chicken wings."

Who knows. It's not their fault. It's my fault.

I went out of earshot to place this "order for the table," knowing I can be excessive, knowing I can be indulgent, knowing I can move too quickly and that I didn't need to order for anyone because everyone is capable of reading the menu except the toddlers who by in large don’t have the dexterity to eat chicken wings off the bone!

I set myself up to fail when all I needed to do was chill!

and I realized I have no chill.

…

In this spirit of accountability and entertainment, I present to you, dear friend, the order I placed for the table in it's totality:

3 FULL orders of soy sauce and garlic wings

and 3 FULL orders of original fried wings

(A full order is not a dozen as you may expect. It’s…)

20 pieces.

Also, 6 orders of kimchi pancakes please

and 2 vegetable bibimbaps for myself and my husband (which come with soup, sides, tofu, etc.)

and THEN my trusting family — who didn’t hear what I had done — asked what they should order so I advised them to all order bibimbap too. So everyone got MORE food.

someone even got bulgogi.

Finally, I exhaled, I did the thing. I took care of my family.

…

and once the parade of wings and rice and kimchi slowed down we ate for a really, really long time.

This dinner could’ve been a happy, triumphant time for me but it wasn’t. I spent the entire meal ashamed of my mistake.

Our collective efforts to eat away my error made no difference. I had lost.

As the sauces congealed and the kids started to run a muck, our table began to resemble a casino buffet. My mess was on full display. The waste was inescapable.

I failed.

to take care of my family. And 60 chickens lost their wings.

…

ughh do I have to mention trauma from covid and food insecurity, a life long battle with anorexia healed by pregnancy, childhood neglect, IBS, empty fridges, years of financial destitution —

I don’t think so.

What does any of that matter now? I’m physically healthy with access to food and the ability to provide it for myself and others.

City life, finally. Even, take-out at any hour.

Is it that I

need to remember not to impulsively behave by default or I run the risk of tapping into previous methods of madness that no longer apply?

Maybe.

But if you give a mouse a cookie

…

At some point, waiters at Pyeong Chang Tofu 버클리 평창 순두부 offered us mounds of to-go containers and piles of plastic bags.

because my mess was so wasteful and expensive, friends and family loving agreed to eat chicken wings for every meal for days

and the next morning when 40 cannolis, 4 salads, a platter of shrimp, crudités, and

14 large pizzas arrived for my daughter’s 1st birthday party I shook my head and all I could think was

they’re going to want a glass of milk to go with the cannolis.

HERE, MOUSE

by If You Give a Mouse a Cookie

Read more

LOL proudly presents, small talk city…

all items linked below are part of our online store. Check us out!

www.smalltalkcity.com

and please take our customer survey for 15% off your order ❤️ thank you for your support.

…

and welcome to LOL. A reader-supported publication. Each week, I feature a children’s book, a creative essay, and fun edits to inspire the art of life.

This newsletter is best read in the substack app. If you are reading this in your email you might not see the whole thing. Make sure to click “view entire message”

Subscribe below! and if you like it please share :))

ONE IS ONE

by Tasha Tudor

Tasha Tudor, a children’s book illustrator whose nostalgic throwback lifestyle (she lived in a replica of a late 18th-century New England farmhouse) included spinning flax into linen to make her own clothes, milking goats and sleeping in a featherbed “with her nose pointing north”

Tudor was obsessed with a back to basics rural lifestyle and supported four children with her books and illustrations while running a 500-acre farm alone.

she raised her four kids in what must have been an idyllic rural lifestyle, putting on elaborate marionette shows and floating cakes down the river – without modern conveniences like television or even a radio (or even electricity, for a long time).

but it couldn’t have been very happy since

she ended up disinheriting 3 of her children and didn’t acknowledge 5 of her grandchildren.

We only know this because after her death there was a messy legal battle between the siblings who fought over her estate.

which makes the following photographs sad. featuring a young Tasha and her children as photographed by Nell Dorr for her book Mother and Child.

-Miss Moss

I wonder what childbirth and postpartum was like for her all alone in the country with nothing but her fantasies.

MOTHERHOOD

by One is One

If you love Ina May, stop reading. If you ever hired a birth doula stop reading. If you have a preference or judgment that vaginal birth is "natural," stop reading. If you're spending your pregnancy doing "spinning babies," stop reading.

If you have already read Ina May, did spinning babies, exercised religiously during pregnancy just as you did before, wished on a series of stars, turned your body into a temple, had the fortune of cooperative genetics, labored for five hours, and welcomed your child in a bed of roses, you will wonder why I was so sure I needed a planned cesarean with my eldest.

when there was no medical reason to have it.

and it’s not just you. everyone asked why. demanded!

"I'm a survivor of trauma; I don't want to be further traumatized when my child comes into the world."

selfish they hissed

but jokes on them because my oldest daughter's planned cesarean was the most joyful, meaningful, and powerful day of my life. so conscious. true and present.

Maybe it was selfish driving to the hospital at 5am, bringing her into the world with the first quiet sunlight.

now,

if you have read Ina May you'll understand the pressure I put on myself to vaginally deliver with you, my second.

Here's the thing — there are so many evil stepmothers in fairytales for a reason.

Child rearing is dangerous, and I thank g-d every day for the modern medicine that has allowed you and me our lives.

…

For one year, I've avoided talking about this. Or thinking about it.

To this day, when I visit my OB nurses, they whisper as if in the presence of a sideshow—they touch me light.

But I think about you, darling Lisette. It's your first birthday, and I just know that as my daughter, you will ask.

You'll want to know how you came into consciousness. How you survived your birth. How we fell so deep in love.

I'll tell you now, dear. While you bounce, learning to walk across the room so brave. As you find your first sounds. Communicate most in smiles. Chomp pretzels with your minted front teeth you cut night after night. I eat your cheeks and you and me we are us.

You are so brave.

a survivor from birth.

I'm deeply in love with you. More than I've been in my life with anyone.

But it wasn't always this way.

For a time, I wasn't even sure you were mine. Yes, you were born out of my body, but let me explain.

…

i labored on and off for one month before your arrival. i was sure you would be born any moment but medical professionals and witches alike told me no — i must wait.

but the pain incapacitated me for hours on end daily.

"Prodromal labor," they called it. Modern-day science for hysteria. i wept in pain, and mid-wives said things like, "The last month is hard."

I bounced us on a rubber ball night and night and night to "get things going."

At some point, in a haze of dates, acupuncture, and castor oil, I broke out in a full-body rash and was finally admitted to the hospital. My blood pressure shot up.

He set up a galaxy on the ceiling. Someone finally found my vein.

The machines said i was contracting. Dilated but not really.

i knew you had to get out so i sucked in poison that made the midwife sound like charlie brown as she attempted to break you out

it didn’t work. i left like scarcrow from the terrible batman.

Your dad was muddled. He couldn't help.

Doctors couldn't either. They just pointed to monitors.

practicing medicine on us.

Midwives advised a cesarean. The birth doula blinked and said she needed sleep. Nurses changed shifts again and again. i walked the halls alone with you, dragging my IV of Pitocin for us.

A meeting was called at 3am on my third night in the hospital.

No one could agree on why you weren’t making your debut.

then

like a wildfire, you got loud in me, and we threw everyone out, ripped the machines from my arms, and insisted on surgery first thing in the morning.

Back to life.

We stopped drinking. Stopped eating. Stopped dreaming.

The surgery was quiet. Somber. Different than the first time.

I didn’t know then, but this decision saved our lives.

…

and you were here

But I was gone.

You sucked at my chest. I was out of my mind with rags on my head and no sense of how much blood I was losing.

Did I die?

Doctor Liz came to our side.

She wanted me to know

there was a window.

When they looked inside me, everyone could see you floating a millimeter by death.

Uterine dehiscence can produce a uterine window—a thinning of the uterine wall that may allow the fetus to be seen through the myometrium. Often, uterine dehiscence is an occult finding in an asymptomatic patient.

and every moment of my month-long “labor,” when I thought I was having contractions, it was my uterus trying to rupture.

Uterine rupture is rare, happening in less than 1% of women who attempt a trial of labor after cesarean.

still, now, i couldn’t feel myself hemorrhaging on the recovery table.

i thought i knew myself, but I was lost.

and you came out blonde and foreign. not me.

nurse Mel carried stacks of my blood away from us, horrified. she didn’t notice her shift had ended hours ago, but I did.

she thought I was going to die, I think.

at least you were saved from the house I didn’t build you. Whoever you were.

…

the letting stopped, and repair started with iron sprinkled on frozen yogurt.

thank g-d postpartum education is a thing. and i could see my madness stirring.

are you mine? who are you?

your g-d mother helped me write you this song in a haze of sleep deprivation and PTSD

“star baby, you’ve got stars in your eyes.

star baby, what a surprise.

star baby, you’re too good to be true.

star baby, I love you.”

what a surprise. i was fighting my own confusion.

then your grandmother on your father’s side first held you — and you offered your first smile — and she knew you right away and everyone called you “girl Scott” and “happy baby” and i understand now by the depths of my love for you that you are your beautiful father.

he cut you from his bones, and I rented you my soul.

and when you met your sister, a girl cut of my bones,

she brought you a silly snail, and you gave her a cozy bunny

and you had mama’s magic milk, and she had french fries

and life is the greatest moment of my life watching you two together just

TWO IS TWO SISTERS MAKING A WISH

by One is One

SIX IS SIX CHILDREN ALL DRESSED IN THEIR BEST

by One is One

Read more

This newsletter is best read in the substack app. If you are reading this in your email you might not see the whole thing. Make sure to click “view entire message”

Subscribe below! and if you like it please share :))

this post contains affiliate links to amazon, etsy, and eBay

Subscribe now

PIGS IN HIDING

by Arlene Dubanevich

Sometimes, while parenting, I ask myself:

What’s more important now? To be right or to be light?

MOTHERHOOD

by Pigs in Hiding

she: Mama, we’re playing hide and seek.

me: We are?

she: Yes, you and me.

me: Okay!

(she stands there)

me: You hide, and I find you.

she: Okay!

(she stands there)

me: Okay, go. Hide.

she: I’m hiding!

me: You’re standing in the same place.

she: No. I’m HIDING.

me: Hiding is when you…

(me googles definition of “hide”)

me: You get out of sight! So I can’t see you.

(she puts her hands over her eyes)

she: I’m hiding!

me: Okay.

she: Find me!

me: Okay.

she: Count!

me: Five. Six. Seven.

she: EIGHT!

(me laughs)

me: I love you so much.

she: Mama we’re playing hide and seek.

me: We are?

she: Yes, you and me.

me: Okay!

(she stands there)

me: You hide, and I find you.

she: I’m hiding!

LOST AND FOUND

by Pigs in Hiding

Read more

This newsletter is best read in the substack app. If you are reading this in your email you might not see the whole thing. Make sure to click “view entire message”

Subscribe below! and if you like it please share :))

this post contains affiliate links to amazon, etsy, and eBay

DO YOU WANT TO BE MY FRIEND?

by Eric Carle

Sometimes, I avoid reading this book to my children. Sometimes, I face my discomfort, read it, and enjoy the experience.

Since there are only a few words, you can make up the story as you go along. That journey can be uncomfortable, scary, and rewarding.

Kind of like parenting.

MOTHERHOOD

by Do You Want To Be My Friend?

Or what not to do when you’re a survivor of domestic violence and your toddler gets bit at preschool:

*trigger warning: domestic violence

1. Don’t pull her out of school

2. Don’t think about changing her school

3. Don’t blame the parents of the kid that bit your kid for the biting. Don’t blame them in your heart or out loud to anyone.

4. Don’t try and “help” by asserting your opinions on everyone involved and everyone not involved.

5. You’ll want to but don’t blame the teachers.

6. Don’t yell at the teachers, the school director, or the mom who manages admin at the front desk. In fact, don’t read any newsletters from the school right now.

I know.

7. Don’t stick your kid in front of Sesame Street for days to “take and give space” and order fried shitty takeout “to make life easy” while you stomp around ranting about how unfair the world is so even the cat is afraid to go near you.

8. In general, don’t make the whole thing about yourself (your kid is the one who has a physical and emotional wound) by spilling yourself all over the house.

9. Definitely, don’t let anxiety take hold of the controls so much that you don’t sleep and you catch a green snot, head in a bell jar, cold.

None of this will protect the little girl inside of you who no one listened to.

You’ll feel like the bull you are being, becoming your abuser and making it all worse.

Most importantly:
10. Don’t project onto the kid that bit your kid that they need the help you once needed. They don’t. Even if they do, you can’t help them when you’re like this.
11. Don’t be defensive when people you trust point this projection out.
12. Don’t ignore your impulse to bite back. Don’t bite back. Don’t deny it if you do it.

14. Don’t put emotional distance between you and your kid.

You might want to do all this but just don’t.

What to do when you’re a survivor of domestic violence and your toddler gets bit at preschool:

Take a deep breath
Take a few more deep breaths
More breathing

More.
Breathe for a week.

…

The day your kid gets bit — Let your spouse or someone else talk to the school and the teachers. Let your spouse or someone else look at the ouch report. Don’t look at the ouch report. Call it something else like “a letter from the school about class today.”

If you are the only adult around, tell the school you are a survivor of domestic violence, and you simply cannot hold the ouch report at this moment and to please mail it to your house. And say thank you.

Crying is okay. Crying is best at home if you can help it.

Yelling is not okay.

Let go of the entitlement that says you are owed something for the pain.

Accept that no one owes you anything.

…
Breathe, turn your phone off, stay home, take a shower, eat, have some tea, and accept the homemade cookies your neighbor offers.

You might hear from the parents of the kid who bit your kid. You might not. Remind yourself that no matter how good of a friend they are, it’s not their job to soothe you.

They are busy with battles you can’t see. You’re not ready to talk yet.

First, can you soothe yourself?

…

Look at your kid. Sit with her. Play the games she wants to play like turning into whales on the ocean floor. Play how she wants to play.

If you can’t stop looking at her injury and need to use Sesame Street, watch it with her and talk to her about the characters. Tell your kid you love her. Tell her again. If it’s okay with her, stay physically close. Offer extra cuddles. Laugh at things she thinks are funny. Keep her favorite snacks close.

Try not to look at her wound too closely. I know the skin is broken, the bruise is darkening. Try not to look, okay?

It’s okay to cry, but not in front of her. She doesn’t need your tears. Look in her sparkling eyes. Look at her strong knees.

Feeling badly about the world and how painful life can be is okay.

Feel that. Tell yourself it’s okay to feel that.

See that she is healing fast.
…
The day after the bite. You will want to take all kinds of action.

So, get up. Brush your teeth, experiment with your new contacts that are so weird and hard to put in and take out, shower with your favorite soap, ride the bike, make both your kids a yummy, fun breakfast with a smiley face in it, hug your husband and tell him you’re proud of him, get the laundry going, wipe down the table, open a window, boil water for tea, make your kids lunch and snack extra healthy yummy and thoughtful, turn the seat heaters on in the car, put your kid’s pants and your pants on one leg at a time, pack yourself tea for the road.

Accept that all this action is enough action. This is your quiet rebellion. Your anecdote to violence. These actions you are taking will prepare your kid for whatever new bites are coming her way today. When you remember she will get bit again take a big deep inhale and remember to exhale too.

If you still want to take action,

ask your kid how she is doing today.

She might tell you now, “XXX bit me!”

Breathe.

Ask her how it made her feel to be bitten. Let her be sad. Let the hurt wash over you, too. Hold space for her. Stay really quiet.

Say, “I hear you saying XXX bit you. That sounds really hard. XXX must have been so upset. Biting hurts. It’s not your fault.”

Give her a lot of space over many days because she might need to talk about it at random times — she might try to explain how she is doing, and she may need you’re help because she might be confused and

listen, you have to be really, really quiet to hear her confusion.

I know it’s loud in your heart right now.

So,
cancel all other important conversations for the next week. Month if you need it.
Take another deep breath
…

After a bit — not right away — wait to talk until you can be mindful of how you angry you sound — tell your therapist, your close friends, and the teachers if they are loving enough to ask

Say “Hello. I am a trauma survivor. I am hurting. I am a survivor of domestic violence as a child and as an adult. I am activated. My inner child is activated. I can’t talk about this from any other part of me right now and I want to talk so I don’t feel so alone. Thank you for asking. I’m having a lot of overwhelm. Is there any support you recommend for a human like me?”

If you’re lucky they might send you some articles.

The articles might frustrate you. Read them anyway. Believe the research. It is common for kids to bite each other. Not everyone experiences biting the same. The biting itself is a form of expression. It doesn’t have to mean anything. Yes, it could mean something. But it might not.

You’ll read that biting is unacceptable, but you won’t know what that means.

Even after you read the articles, if someone asks how you are dealing with what happened, it is safe to say: “I am raw, and I am hurting, and I am still processing.”

That is enough of an answer.

Listen, I know you want to process quickly so it doesn’t hurt so much — so you don’t have to admit you’re not allowing space for your kid's pain because

it all hurts so much.

Because you’ve never seen her hurt before. Not like this.

Because you still need to do DBT and tapping and keep releasing the trauma from your fascia in yoga but life is moving so fucking fast.

…

Be prepared that people will have heard what happened, and they might ask how your kid is. Some of them are asking because it’s polite. If you get that sense, say, “She’s okay. We’re giving her room for her feelings.” That is enough of an answer.

You might reach out to other parents and tell them what’s happened.

If someone is genuinely interested and you can tell they want to support you, and they ask how she’s doing tell them…

She’s behaving differently. Angry. I’m not sure if it’s my fault because of how emotional I feel, if it’s her reacting to the violence she experienced, or if it’s both or something else. Maybe it’s the damn head cold, or she’s constipated or thirsty?

She’s been taking it out on her baby sister, and it’s fucking heartbreaking.

The chain reaction of how we can impact one another is playing out before my eyes, and it’s a lot to watch. Someone felt hurt. They hurt her. She’s hurting someone — it goes on and on.

Wait. No. Don’t say any of this. That’s confusing, and an overshare.

Tell whoever is asking, “I’m not sure how she’s doing because the question is confusing because — she got bit by her friend, and she’s walking around with a physical wound. So when you ask me how she’s doing, it’s almost dismissive that something big happened.”

…

It’s almost like —

That one time when he threw me by my hair into our hallway on Bowery with the shiny, big black bags of trash full of his empty beer bottles, and I said I wouldn’t get back into his arms until my cuts and bruises healed, but we lived together so I had nowhere to go and it felt like my fault

then

I wrote a poem about that moment and submitted it to a literary magazine —

Dinner Time by Jillian Federman 2018

on this sturdy redwood desk

my favorite hat

sensitive stitched in cadmium yellow

makes me forget the time

my limbs smashed into fictile bags of exhausted glass bottles

as you flung me out of your studio by my mane

The landing of the building

neighbors with fists full of cooked chickens and crudite

I collected my clumps of whiskers

waited.

crawled back in.

barred my bones and begged for another

but Bowery lit your tears neon

and those ethidium bromide stained glasses began to crack off your cream cheese face

I tripped over your army of bottles bedside

visited with the place you smashed my head to begin with

the skin of my paws burned as I removed your frames

and we wrapped up the poison

tucked it away between the pillows

hunger burning my bruises into scares

I miss new york

and when my poem was rejected, the feedback from the editor was something about how it was clever to write this way about a stray cat —

…

Asking how she’s doing after her friend bit her is almost like —

That time, I watched him throw her down the flight of stairs when she was pregnant with my sister, and he didn’t leave a single bruise on her.

…

It’s almost like —

what does it matter how she is doing? What must she be for this situation to feel okay? How could we know when and how she will remember this? How do we know what feels like violence to her? She got hurt, and it wasn’t her fault, and I couldn’t protect her.

…

More breathing.

…

Sorry, let me start over —

If people ask how she’s doing after being bitten, tell them the truth and say, “I think she’s processing it, and it’s hard to answer because she’s a complicated person who doesn’t have all the language or brain development and…”

No.

No.

Sorry, this is hard.

…

If people ask how she’s doing after being bitten, say, “Hey. It means a lot that you’re asking. We’re working on resilience. Thank you. How are you?”

…

Anyway, now that you are ready,

call the parent of the kid who bit your kid.

…

Call them, and leave a loving message if they don’t answer.

Wait to hear back.

When you get on the phone, ask them how they are doing.

They might ask how your kid is when you start talking about the incident (hopefully, you won’t have to spend an hour unraveling your messy reaction because you’ll have read this first). So you say —

Hey. It means a lot that you’re asking. We’re working on resilience. Thank you. How is your kid?”

They might tell you something like, "She's fine. Biting is common, and she's okay, and it's not a problem we're concerned about."

You’ll get flashes of court hearings and being on the witness stand testifying that things happened when there is very little proof.

Breathe.

It's okay to respond to this by calmly saying, "I'm feeling activated and can't hear that right now."

If you're lucky, like I am, the parent will understand how hard this all is and be generous enough with all they have going on to care that you're not ready to hear the truth.

The truth is — this is life.

Sometimes, people hurt other people whether they mean to or not and there’s nothing anyone can do.

Now —

See if you can hear the parent and accept what they say. Tell them you've regulated and ask them again, "How is your kid doing?"

They might say, "I know this is uncomfortable and hurts, but it's also okay. Everyone is safe."

Believe them. Even

keep talking and exchanging experiences together if you both have time.

Consider making the time if you don't.

It's not easy to navigate. But you will do beautifully.

Make jokes mid-conversation about how your baby drank from the toilet.

Let them tell you how much sleep they need.

Don't offer each other any advice.

This is just what life is like right now. Can you hold this discomfort together?

Yes, you can. You can model hard things for your children.

Eventually, if you’re lucky like me, the conversation with the parent of the kid who bit your kid will be so healing that you and the parent will stop talking about feelings and come up with an idea.

A big idea.

Yes.

Let’s get the kids together so they can heal !

You’ll leave the husbands and the babies in another room so you can guard against overwhelm and focus.

Yes, let’s get the kids together in a safe, quiet, resonant space so they can heal.

You’ll have a playdate (!) and some small talk.

You know what?

Let’s make it special for them and us.

Throw the kids a tiny tea party for two. For four.

…

Do you need the fairy costumes, tea sets, and homemade scones?

You might not.

But goddammit I do.

TEA PARTY FOR TWO

by Do You Want To Be My Friend?

Read more

R.I.P D.L.

THE LITTLE RED HEN

by Byron Barton

I’ve never liked this story. It’s spiteful and dark.

As far as I can tell, all the animals on the farm are working toward their own goals and have no space to join Hen’s work.

and that’s okay because Hen’s got it!

Hen saw an opportunity and worked hard; her immediate family reaped the benefits.

The only real problem is that she wasted time and energy trying to convince everyone on the farm to do the job with her. She did it all on her own anyway! Who needs ‘em.

Sure, many hands make lighter work, but she effortlessly did all the work while also caring for her sweet baby chicks. Hen is a hero.

Her chicks saw their mother carry on with purpose. There’s nothing better for little ones than to parallel play while mama does mama’s work.

All Hen was missing IMO was the confidence to stop asking other animals for help.

They couldn’t help. Who are we to say what “work” the cat, the pig, and the duck should be doing, anyway?

Only they know that.

Maybe the duck is battling anxiety, the pig is coming off a massive project and is physically and emotionally depleted, and what if the cat works nights to ensure no rodents are biting the Hen’s chicks and really needs a nap?

Why shouldn’t Hen’s community get a bite of bread?

If Hen can see an opportunity, do all the work, and get it done — in my opinion she could easily share the fruits of her labor with her community.

She can bake the bread!

Not everyone can bake the bread!

and that means she can do it over and over again.

But hey, she can’t kill the rodents on the farm, can she?

The cat kills the mice, and the Hen bakes the bread.

If Hen doesn’t want to share, that's fine. That’s her choice. It’s not a loving choice, but it’s her choice.

Still, I want to read my children a version of Little Red Hen in which Hen finds the seeds, makes the flour, and bakes the bread.

First she feeds herself and her baby chicks. Then, Hen charges the animals in the barnyard $5 a slice and serves it up out of her kitchen.

Eventually Hen makes enough sales to fund a factory to make enough bread for the whole town.

Hen spends her days running back and forth from her factory to beautiful fields with her chicks and everyone lives happily ever after. All because Hen saw a great opportunity, took it, and served her community.

Or better yet —

Maybe Hen and her bread making factory make enough money and bread for her family and her community that she can finally give bread away to animals in need.

That’s a great story.

But we all know why Hen doesn’t share the fruits of her labor with the barn yarn —

Because sharing is hard.

MOTHERHOOD

by The Little Red Hen

Sharing is hard for kids.

Sharing is hard for grown-ups.

Our collective subconsciousness says resources are limited. If you’re asleep in life, you might tap into this frequency and believe it’s true. But it’s not.

Give to yourself. Give to others. Decide to see the truth, abundance is all around you.

For example:

My toddler takes blocks from her sister and says, “These are mine.” She sounds angry, but she is afraid.

“Mine!” stunning in defensiveness.

When I hear my toddler say, “These are mine,” with that unmistakeable air of aggression, I stop whatever I am doing, get to her eye level, and say, “These are ours.”

And I mean it. And she hears it.

She taps into the abundance all around her. Then, the moment passes, and depending on her exhaustion or how thirsty she is, she screams, “Nooo!”

A few moments later, she says, “Mine!” and I stop whatever I am doing, get to her eye level, and say, “These are ours.”

And I mean it. And she hears it.

And she taps into the abundance all around her.

A few moments later, she says, “Mine!” and I stop whatever I am doing, get to her eye level, and say, “These are ours.”

And I mean it. And she hears it.

And she taps into the abundance all around her.

Depending on how tired, thirsty, or cold she is, I might repeat this twenty times an hour. Sometimes, days go by. But if I hear it — if I hear “MINE.”

I stop whatever I am doing, get to her eye level, and say, “These are ours.”

And I mean it. And she hears it.

And she taps into the abundance all around her.

I do this —

So that eventually, someday, when someone takes something important from her, and she feels she has nothing—when someone takes what’s “hers”—she will let it sting and then tap into an ancient knowing that no one can take what matters.

Her spirit.

No one can take her mind.

Her mind can turn any crayon into a block. Any thing is whatever she needs it to be. Cold wind becomes refreshing. Death becomes an opportunity. Carelessness becomes information. Poison becomes medicine. Fire becomes relief.

The truth is, no one can take anything from you. Everything is what you make it.

Except for your shelter and your food.

…

But if someday that terrible wind should blow and your snack or shelter is dust, I will be there, and I will make sure there is enough to go around for I am Hen and I can do the work.

What’s mine is ours.

SHARING

by The Little Red Hen

Here are a few fast ways to remotely share with those in needs. This list isn’t robust or comprehensive, but it’s actionable and as Lilyan would say… “it’s up to you!”

Bid on pieces up for auction organized by Lobster Club. All proceeds go to the LA Art World Fire Relief.

Support the LA Fire Department here: https://supportlafd.org/

Some more fantastic options:

Altadena Girls Fund started by a teen

Baby2Baby Disaster Relief and Emergency Response

Pasadena Humane Society For Animal Shelters

Help Station 69 Battle the Palisades Fire

Support HERO DROPS: Feed LA Firefighters

Mutual Aid L.A. — This spreadsheet is awesome

We love Byron Barton. We found his version of The Little Red Hen from thriftbooks. Someone should rewrite it!

Subscribe now

Welcome to LOL. A reader-supported publication. Each week, I feature a children’s book, a creative essay, and fun edits to inspire the art of life.

This newsletter is best read in the substack app. If you are reading this in your email you might not see the whole thing. Make sure to click “view entire message”

Subscribe below! and if you like it please share :))

this post contains affiliate links to amazon, etsy, and eBay

JILLIAN JIGGS

by Phoebe Gilman

Jillian likes to dress up and play but never gets around to cleaning her room.

MOTHERHOOD

by Jillian Jiggs

Hey. I get it.

Organization is tough.

However, as the house manager, I take my job seriously. It is my security blanket, an anecdote to the chaos of being responsible for kids.

Plus, I just want things to be nice for them.

And I’m in charge! If I don’t take control of this insanity, who will?

The point is, it’s Capricorn season and,

in honor of my birthday today,

I'm going to share a method I've used to control a fraction of the madness of raising young children, and my hope is someone out there will benefit.

Who knows. I might also be fluffing my own ponytails.

Also, just don't even listen to me. I'm a maximalist. No matter what you see, think, or hear, my home gets chaotic and messy. Often, I stare at the mess my small family of 4 has created and blink bleary-eyed before giving up and collapsing in bed in a pile of cat hair.

My husband, an incredibly organized Virgo, is maybe the only reason we are all ever clean, dressed, and fed.

He has military blood in his blood.

You won't catch him playing before everything is in its right place and everything has a right place.

But not for me…

I’m inherently messy and chaotic, and it never bothers me until it’s clear it bothers everyone.

So it’s also important to note: plenty of times a day, I’ll see a destroyed kitchen, neglected piles of bile stained laundry, starving humans with no plan and no food in the fridge, choking hazards and murder-level danger to children everywhere — and I’ll think that I’m somehow making it worse

or that it’s my fault and that I’m a “terrible mother” and hopeless housekeeper/cook/wife/laundress/baker/maker/planner, whateverthefuck, and I’ll cry or collapse in a delirious panic.

My point is, I haven’t figured anything out.

But there is this one thing that really helps me…

Wait.

First, let me tell you one story so you understand I’m with you in the struggle. The struggle is: How is it even legal that I’m a mother in charge of humans?

So,

my ten-month-old Lisette is teething, right? Tonight, I was going on min 37 of rocking her in the chair after I gave her a dose of Tylenol, natural teething medicine, a back rub, a bottle of formula, a cold teething toy, a warm teething toy, both breasts of my milk, six books, and 3 made up stories when I lovingly, gently, laid her in her crib. She SCREAMED in my face like an angry baboon so loud that I snapped and said:

“I’m done with this,”

and left, slamming the nursery door.

Nice one, Jillian.

Lilyan flung out of bed and raged about how much she wanted GOLDFISH.

It was almost 8 p.m., and both children were screaming harmoniously. Would they summon the neighborhood coyotes? Is the cat inside?

After a few moments of their demonic choir, Lilyan beat the nursery door with both fists so hard I was sure she'd break through it like a psychotic Roger rabbit.

At this point, I should have gone back in, but instead, I headed downstairs to the… kitchen... for some reason.

…

Did I start on the two sinks full of dishes?

No.

That would’ve made some sense.

Did I leave the screaming children alone to do something else noble like clean up the table from our abandoned dinner that consisted of an overcooked frittata that had way too much dill so that somehow it tasted like a cold foot that no one ate but was (for some reason) smushed into every crack in the wood floor? Did I clean any of that?

No.

Did I feed the crying cat?

NO.

I went downstairs to eat leftovers of the stove with my hands.

EVEN THOUGH I HAD A FULL PLATE OF FOOD STILL SITTING AT THE TABLE!

I couldn’t even look at the mess at the table, the failed dinner, or the ants in the cracks in the wood enjoying the dill.

I just went to the stove and stood there and did something like eating.

…

To answer your question, yes, eventually, I stopped binging perfectly roasted, crunchy, salty potatoes with smeared caramels over leftover gelt

and got my shit together enough to return to the land of the deranged toothless lunatics whom I love so much.

I walked in the door and said, “How can I help you?”

Below me, I saw a defiant Lilyan, obviously egged on by her baby Lisette, with one hand inside the diaper pail about to be the Picasso of poop!

I’ve seen this before. You can’t give it any attention at all; otherwise, it’s a game, and it’s a whole thing.

I swooped in, quickly sailed the diaper pail out of the room with my foot, gathered the baby, sat back in the rocking chair, nursed the baby for comfort (weaning is going great, thanks for asking), and told Lilyan something brilliant like,

“Honey, I know it can be really uncomfortable to take a rest when I’m not tired. Sometimes, if that happens, I’ll tell myself a story.”

“Tell me a story.”

“About what?”

“About a family of plants.”

Ah, yes, the family of plants. It's the most ridiculous thing anyone could say to me now, but that's why I love being a mother.

It's all so fucking surreal and delightfully deranged.

Anyway, I told the girls a "story" about a family of plants that (for some reason) went swimming in the ocean and ate french fries for dinner.

By the time I finished the story, Lilyan had fallen asleep on the floor, and Lisette was dreaming before her head even hit the crib.

and I felt immediate relief.

Even though my child was sleeping with no blanket on a floor and my baby was technically "soothed to sleep" with my breast, a pacifier, a story, and a rock in a chair, which if you ask LITERALLY ANYONE is not "good."

SO

As you can see, I'm a mess. Just like everyone. A MESS.

My point is — if you're reading this — I want you to know I don't know what I'm doing, but I love trying to figure out how to do it better, so here is just one "hack" for you to roll your eyes at and profess it won't work for you ;)

And hey, if you're reading this and find self-celebratory domestic suggestions insufferable, just fucking skip this week's essay.

JUST SKIP IT.

So, what’s my one hack for how I keep our stuff / their shit under control?

My toddler wears a “uniform” to nursery school. The uniform is linked at the bottom of this weeks letter.

No one asked for us to do this for school. It is certainly not required. I made up her uniform based on creatives I admire who keep their choices to a minimum whenever possible.

Her uniform is:

• black t-shirts & black leggings

• white shirts & white leggings

Her uniforms are purchased in packs of 3-5 on Amazon and last on average 6 months.

It works to reduce stress in my house because:

1. Laundry is significantly easier — bleach the white and wash the black

2. The toddler does not debate with us about what she is wearing when we don’t have time to. It’s the uniform, and that’s the end of the conversation. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t protest sometimes! She does. Big emotions and feelings of frustration are okay and she always calms down :) She’s allowed to throw a fit. I can handle it. So can her dad.

3. Scott and I do not discuss her clothing with each other, and this saves us SO much energy!

4. The teachers appreciate it. We have stopped labeling her items all together because everyone knows exactly what belongs to her. Even her. When she needs a change at school she has many of the same backups and it’s easy and clear for everyone.

5. The toddler takes pride in styling herself. Her uniform is the base. She picks out her socks, her bows, and weather-dependent accessories like a coat, shoes, scarf, hat, etc. That’s a lot of choices for a 2 year old!

It’s all just so overwhelming, isn’t it? I’m 39 and I get overwhelmed in my own closet. Don’t you?

Help them! They will fight you. Help them anyway.

…

There are many reasons I send my toddler to school in a uniform.

But after school, and on the weekends, and whenever we don’t really have to be anywhere this kid has such an unbelievable wardrobe of “play clothes” OMG —

THEY DRESSED UP AS BUTTERFLIES

by Jillian Jiggs

Read more

Welcome to LOL. A reader-supported publication. Each week, I feature a children’s book, a creative essay, and fun edits to inspire the art of life.

This newsletter is best read in the substack app. If you are reading this in your email you might not see the whole thing. Make sure to click “view entire message”

Subscribe below! and if you like it please share :))

this post contains affiliate links to amazon, etsy, and eBay

ARM IN ARM

by Remy Charlip

Surreal, hilarious, thoughtful. I can’t say enough about this children’s poetry book from visionary artist Remy Charlip. Even though it was written in 1969, it feels fresh as a daisy.

MOTHERHOOD

by Arm in Arm

Forgive me if you’ve heard this one, but the other day I was at a table surrounded by toddlers and parents about to enjoy a sugar rush from my first bite of homemade chocolate cake at our friends 3rd birthday party when —

my two and a half-year-old, slice of cake and kid fork in hand called to me from across the table —

"Mama, can you cut my cake for me?"

I studied her.

What was going on here? She can physically cut a bite from her slice and feed herself.

If it's my tenderness and affection she's after, she will have to ask for that directly.

I can't reward this kind of coded emotional request. She could spend the rest of her life saying octopus expecting snow!

No.

It's not her community's responsibility to do the invisible labor of figuring out what she wants and needs. If she wants togetherness, my focus, or tenderness, pretending to be incapable isn't going to cut it.

No.

Plus, I want a bite of my cake. There's no reason to fling it to the side and tend to her when she can clearly handle it.

No.

Besides, a mother needs her own moment with cake. You know? Like Lindor commercials.

I'm attempting conscious consumption these days and I successfully avoided a bagel at the party in favor of the dessert course.

I’m feeling cranky.

So anyway —

"That's Lilyan's work," I served.

"Please, mama"

Now everyone was watching this interaction unfold.

"Lilyan, I know it's hard, but you can do hard things," I leaned on the table across from her.

She hung her head, defeated.

"When you slice into that cake and take a big bite it will taste so good, and then you'll be able to eat chocolate cake on your own forever."

Parents nodded in support.

"I caaaan't," she moaned.

"You can. You can do hard things." I straightened up.

Arrogant that she would give in and take her own bite of cake, I turned to the group of parents and said, "I'm certainly not making it easier for her to eat more chocolate cake." Everyone smirked.

Ha.

Ha.

My two-and-a-half-year-old narrowed her eyes.

"I'll ask my papa," she beamed.

I choked on rainbow frosting.

We all watched as the toddler, cake in hand, slid out of her chair and glided across the house — careful not to spill one crumb on her way.

Her Papa, was unaware of the play he was participating in. Thankfully, we all had an unobstructed view when she reached him.

We watched with great anticipation as he leaned in close to hear what she was asking for.

That loving man.

Not only did he happily slice a bite of her chocolate cake for her, but he also proceeded to SPOON FEED IT INTO HER MOUTH.

She ate precisely one bite of cake like this and then walked away happy and satisfied.

Her captive audience roared with laughter.

Even I laughed deep and long. It felt so good.

When our friend told her Papa about the moments before his scene, my wonderful husband — I haven't seen him laugh that hard at a party in a long time.

…

Yes, I'm okay with how it all unfolded. I'm on my path of parenting, and he is on his, and she is on her own journey of discovery in autonomy.

Her father isn't thinking about creating a growth mindset when she asks for a bite of cake. He isn't considering protecting his moment with his own bite of cake, either.

Her father isn't — maybe — thinking about anything except meeting the needs of his kid, and that's sweeter than any bite of cake anyway.

Good for them.

As for me, I plan to continue encouraging my daughter to do whatever she can for herself. This world isn't responsible for encouraging her esteem; nothing builds confidence like self-reliance.

If she knows how to take a bite of cake at two-and-a-half, who knows what she'll be able to do in her lifetime.

But —

Considering this story — even when her father offered to feed her, she only wanted one bite — so I have to wonder if she was in fact looking for the warmth and tenderness of connection from me.

And even though it’s good practice to mean what you say, maybe she doesn't even know what to ask for yet.

Maybe next time she asks for “help” with something she is capable of doing, instead of saying "no,"

perhaps I'll go over to her.

Perhaps, I'll get to her eye level, and maybe I will put my hand on her shoulder or hold her hand or smile at her and acknowledge her presence, and maybe instead of trying to teach her something, I'll ask if I can sit near her while we eat our cake together.

A reaction like that will encourage her to discover whatever she means and take a bite of her own capacity.

Because if I’m being honest it’s hard to know what you really want. Even for grownups.

For example, I am almost 39, and I thought all I needed was a moment alone with a slice of cake when what I really needed was to laugh with my pals.

Until next time <3

Subscribe now

DANCING CAKES

by Arm in Arm

1. Chocolate Gateau Sliceable Cake

2. Sweet birthday cake with fruit

3. Handmade Chocolate Layer Cake On A Stand

4. Felt Cake Set -Chocolate Rainbow 6". 6 pcs cake with rainbow icing and candles

5. PairPear Birthday Party Cake Playset for Kids,Wooden Toys Play Food

6. Wooden Chocolate Bonbons on a Tiered Tray

IN RAINBOWS

by Arm in Arm

Read more

This week you’ll find a downloadable gift for you to enjoy with little one/s. A small token of my appreciation for your being here.

SUN BREAD

by Elisa Kleven

MOTHERHOOD

by Sun Bread

On Christmas Eve, “breakfast” in my house starts at 2:23am when Scott and I wake up to the elements thrashing against our house.

“That’s some storm,” he’s half asleep, but I can tell he’s thrilled like me to be right where we are, tucked in the linen sheets we got as a wedding gift 5 years ago.

“Wait. Ugh. I’m dizzy,” I sputter.

The only thing I have consumed since the super-death flu whirled through us this week (aside from saltines and the occasional bite of matzo-ball or cookie) is Schweppes ginger ale with ice.

I reach for the one at my bedside. This particular cup is perfectly flat and watered down, and I love the sound of the ice cubes against the thick glass of my favorite mason jar as I sip it.

Did I fall back to sleep? It's 4:48 am, and I hear our 10-month-old Lisette's unmistakable moan for milk.

With a cardigan over my PJ’s, I fall down the hall toward the nursery. Our girls share a space. May they never know profound loneliness.

The baby throws back her canopy (her favorite peek-a-boo game). If she had mastered English, she would have said, "Hi!" but it's a noise in a private language to her and I.

Gathering her, I study. She looks better than last night. More color in her cheeks. Her forehead is cool on the back of my neck. At least her 104.5 fever is gone. She smears phlegm on my sweater.

The babe wants milk, but she's covered in bubbles and chunks of snot and mucus. Poor thing. She doesn't know how to cough, so it comes out in heaps and spurts.

I wipe her with a muslin cloth and cradle her back into my bed to drink.

She takes long, deep, belabored gulps from my right breast (her favorite). She sounds like an old French Bull Dog and smells like wet coastal forest. Her father appears from the darkness with a “snot sucker,” nose bulb thing-a-ma-jig.

Like a pro, he clears her nostrils without interrupting her breakfast. I’m proud of him.

He’s still so ill. Heavy wheezing cough. Nausea. Dizzy-ness. Wait. That’s me. I don’t feel so hot. Ugh.

The baby pulls off my breast and flings her body from mine.

Whoa.

I try and gather her back to me; we haven't finished drinking. She resists. She's strong. She crawls back and forth on the bed. She doesn't want to be touched. I know what this means.

Oh, G-d. Her burp echos the wind outside, and I move just in time to catch her raining vomit in my hands.

“Good work,” my husband says.

“Please. Don’t.”

I fly out of bed to the bathroom and scrub my hands and arms. Am I going to be sick? Can’t tell. Reflex, I pop an anti-nausea medication (Life Savor!!!) on my tongue and the best stuff for flu on planet earth (stock up!!!) after that.

This isn’t the worst moment of this flu — by far. The worst was a few nights ago when both the children — let’s not, I’m writing to you about meals, right?

When I crawl into bed, I am too ill to notice Scott whisking the baby back to the nursery. I fall asleep to the sound of our cat, nuzzling deep enough to sleep again.

9:05 am I open my eyes as the 2.5-year-old Lilyan holds my neck with her cool hand and whispers,

"You make me happier than a pink sky."

Not sure if I hear her right or if I am dreaming, I repeat it. I heard right.

“That’s very loving of you,” Scott says.

" A beautiful poem," I tell her, rolling over into consciousness.

Still nauseous and dizzy. "I need to eat," I mumble.

I suggest we all go downstairs for breakfast, knowing none of us can stomach it.

The baby appears in my arms again, and our little family makes our way to the kitchen, felt slippers, cotton robes, and hope in tow.

Scott heads to the stove. Eggs for the kids? Let's try. We'll make the babies first so they can cool down. Scott wants to know what I'd like, but I can't remember why I thought food was a good idea. Nothing.

Lilyan asks after a bagel and cream cheese with her eggs. I smile. It's warming to hear her asking for food again, although dairy is terrible for congestion. I bite my tongue. Maybe she'll eat it. Eating anything at this point is a good idea.

Dizzy, I flop on the couch. Lisette pulls my pajama pant. I close my eyes.

The cat cries to go outside. I let her out. The cold, wet, foggy air pats my cheeks. What a treat. I love living here. Forest to the East. Water to the West.

I drop Lisette into her high chair as Lilyan’s breakfast hits the table. The baby looks confused. Where’s mine? Lilyan shuffles to her chair.

Lilyan’s breakfast: scrambled eggs and half a bagel with cream cheese

Lisette’s breakfast: scrambled eggs

Scott and I debate the temperature of the baby’s scrambled eggs. “It’s nice to have warm food for her,” he insists, sipping tea.

“Maybe, I can have tea?”

I’m asking my tummy, but Scott’s already off to the kettle.

After a few mouse bites, Lilyan pushes her bagel away.

“I want something else,” she meows.

She wants comfort, so her face gets cuter—a kitten. I love the white mustache of cream cheese on her lip. She’s squirming in her chair to get closer to me. Maybe I can help her figure out why the bagel and cream cheese isn't appealing.

I know there's nothing I can do for her. A bagel of cream cheese doesn't sound good to me, either, and it always does. The flu kills joys such as this. But viruses clean the body so we can continue to grow. The flu is crucial to human development.

“I want something else, Papa,” she yowls.

“Chef’s taking a break,” Scott replies as he drops off my tea and his energy disappears from the kitchen. He’s gone to the bathroom. He’s hurting.

We’re all starving but can’t stomach food. Just one sip of tea was too much for his system.

Lisette Patty-cakes her breakfast. I can hear her trying to chew despite globs of mucus blocking her chest and nose. Now, she’s dipping her whole face into the plate of scrambled eggs. I wonder what she’s thinking.

Lilyan has moved on from wanting something else to piling her eggs on her bagel —

a castle.

“I want a (indistinct) on here, k?” She’s talking to her tummy. Her tone is soft, and her pitch is high, so I know she’s deep in imaginative play. I get it. Real life is uncomfortable right now. I’m proud of her.

I love the hum of her mumbling. Playing with her food hasn’t descended into chaos yet, which is good.

Lisette studies her sister and continues experimenting with ways around her congestion.

I consider my tea.

Lilyan drags her bagel and cream cheese across the table. Lisette yawns. Myo cries to come back in from the rain. These are usually signs breakfast is over, but no one ate.

Lilyan wiggles out of her chair toward her play kitchen. It’s set up next to our dining room table so she can cook any number of delights for her family.

Lisette moans. I collect her to my chest. She slurps down 4oz or so of milk from my left breast. It's not her favorite, but it's better than nothing.

Scott’s energy is nearby again. He’s emptying a diaper pale.

Lilyan hands her father a wooden popsicle, “One for you and one for I.” Her syntax and language stuns.

One for you and one for I.

Lisette pushes against my body with her feet, aka she finished drinking. I hold her up to touch her temperature. I’m concerned her fever could return. She’s okay. I put her down to paw some string.

The omelette bagel and cream cheese castle Lilyan created suddenly looks delicious.

I eat it on my way to throw her plate in the sink. If I move fast enough while chewing, it won’t make me sick. Yum. It’s delicious and fatty and salty and perfect. Chef Lilyan. A genius.

Ugh. It’s way too much for me right now. The first bite of complex food I’ve had in days, and my tea is too cold to wash it away.

Filling my favorite mug with more boiling water, I added a heaping spoonful of local honey that we steeped in sage and ginger months ago.

We made garlic honey, too, but it’s so off-putting I can’t even stand the thought of it. In fact, now is the time to throw it out. I drag the viscous muck from the jar and fling it in the trash can. Sorry bees.

I sip my tea. I let Myo inside. Her fur is soaked — poor babe.

Lisette yawns. Rubs her eyes. Our cub is ready for a rest.

“I want to watch Sesame,” Lilyan yowls.

Scott and I exchange a look.

“How about we bake something instead?” her dad offers.

“Yes,” she agrees, this is a good plan. I’m proud of him.

But what? Nothing sounds worse than muffins, cookies, or pie. The room spins.

We need something light. Something simple. Saltines but warm. Saltines with substance. Something to take our minds off the darkness. We need sunshine. A bit of sweet for hope. We need…

I know exactly what we need —

SUN BREAD

by Sun Bread

There’s nothing better than baking with little kids. It’s a messy, silly, and fruitless process that can also be incredibly satisfying. While most toddlers will surprise you with their ability to crack an egg, mix, and pour accurately, usually, they can’t read.

So my gift to you this holiday season is a recipe toddlers and young folks can “read!”

How Egyptian!

I have included jpgs of the adult version of the recipe, the visual recipe, and a downloadable PDF for you to print so you can enjoy making sun bread with your littlest ones.

The idea here is for the kids to feel empowered to tell you what to do next!

This sun bread is perfect for a slow morning when your tummy needs a hug.

Happy Holiday’s.

PS. your kids will love spending time with you no matter how the bread turns out and it’s incredibly fun to eat no matter how it tastes.

This recipe is adapted from the Sun Bread book and Acorn to Oak

Sun Bread Visual Recipe Download

45MB ∙ PDF file

Download

Download

We heard about Sun Bread through the grape vine so we got our copy from Jeff Bezos. Thanks, Jeff.

WATCH Winter Solstice 2024: Sunrise Live from Stonehenge

Subscribe now

And welcome to LOL. A reader-supported publication. Each week, I feature a children’s book, a creative essay, and fun edits to inspire the art of life.

This newsletter is best read in the substack app. If you are reading this in your email you might not see the whole thing. Make sure to click “view entire message”

Subscribe below! and if you like it please share :))

this post contains affiliate links to amazon, etsy, and eBay

THE SOLSTICE BADGER

by Robin McFadden

Who is responsible for winter? According to this tale, the sun is lonely in the sky, so he travels to the depths of the earth every six months to spend time with his only friend, badger.

When he returns to the sky, the planet warms, and round and round we go.

MOTHERHOOD

by The Solstice Badger

Friend, you know me. I have seasons. Some invite output. Not this one. I’m consuming art like —

Making work of ingesting is my creation.

How about we share? I’ll link some of what I’ve been eating, and you can do the same?

First, walk me through your heavy church doors. Sparkle my eyes with glass stained in jewels. Show me G-d and explain how the sun rises and falls and maybe I’ll be present enough to go on a ride.

You want to taste what I mean?

The easy route there is to inhale smoke or a muddle yourself. To intake an automatic blending of your soul with the oneness. Problem is, you lose your-self. There’s nothing to tune your senses. Dulling them might support your curiosity but it stops the point from penetrating.

The way into the present is through heightened tuning in. It’s not fast or easy.

It takes focus to cultivate presence without fear blocking.

Do you want to try?

A deep feeling slow down and feast for the spirit?

Okay.

First, we prime our minds right with ritual.

The winter solstice is considered the seasonal dark night of the soul. Spiritually, it’s a time to honor both the light and the darkness that resides within each of us.

Take small scraps of paper and write down the elements of life that you would like to let go of.

When you have finished throw them in the yule log fire, transforming darkness into light.

After “letting go,” set intentions for the new season ahead—speak aloud a thing, idea, habit, or practice that you would like to bring into your life and meditate.

Lie back in savasana or remain seated, take a moment to honor the light and dark aspects within yourself. Acknowledge the sun and the moon: different yet essential components to the whole.

Acknowledge one radiant quality you possess, and wrap gratitude around it.

Feel the love for this wonderful aspect of yourself.

Now, acknowledge a part of you that you've judged in the past (You don't have to begin with your biggest, baddest, most loathed quality: start small and build up. Shadow work takes time.)

Take a long while to breathe love and appreciation into this quality. Embrace this piece of the great puzzle of who you are: unique, valuable, weird and wacky and absolutely wondrous.

Then, send gratitude to the earth and to the sky. Once again to the sun and the moon. And to yourself, Divine Wonder that you are, here experiencing life. - Melissa Carroll

Ready?

Now, follow me.

and if you feel any sensations inside I’m with you. Don’t brush them off. Stay.

For it is our time, friend, to share stories in the dark underground.

Right this way.

KATE BUSH, PREPARES FOR HER FIRST TOUR

by The Solstice Badger

1. Pretty Doll size French Guignol Puppet Theater all original

2. The Solstice Badger Printable Puppet Set

LAURIE ANDERSON, WAITING FOR THE BARBARIANS

by The Solstice Badger

Read more

This newsletter is best read in the substack app. If you are reading this in your email you might not see the whole thing. Make sure to click “view entire message”

This post contains affiliate links to amazon, etsy, and eBay

Subscribe below! and if you like it please share :))

THE GIVING TREE

by Shel Silverstein

There seem to be two broadly accepted (and debated) interpretations of this painful classic:

1. If you give to others without considering your own needs, you will lose yourself

2. Giving endlessly, and selflessly is a gift

But IMO this is a story about our relationship with ourselves.

We all have a Tree of Life that provides endlessly no matter how we poison, ignore, or take advantage of it. It never holds a grudge.

Your Tree of Life waits patiently for your love and appreciation, and is happy when you meet yourself in the deep knowing that your existence is a gift.

Enough with the schmaltz.

Read on for this week’s squirrelly adventures in —

Subscribe now

MOTHERHOOD

by The Giving Tree

The other day, I was about to grab my third batch of chestnuts from a bin at my favorite produce market when doubt struck. Something was off.

So, I turned to the aisle of shoppers nearby and yelped, “Has anyone successfully roasted chestnuts before?!”

They all shook their heads, “No.”

Damn. I had already roasted two batches that week with two different recipes. They all turned out horrible, like inedible.

What was I doing wrong?

Ugh.

A determined (albeit anxious) squirrel, I gathered another fist full of nuts and scurried home.

A flurry of coffee and feathery sweaters, I twitched at my opponent. Chewed my cuticles raw with anticipation (see thumb image above).

Drumming my nails on the counter, I thought hard.

Okay. So, no one at the market could help me, but this batch would be different.

How?

…

Ah!

Now, I am armed with this serious eats recipe!

Alton Brown and I are serious—about nuts. We can do this!

But I'd need my full capacity to meet the moment.

So later, when my husband ran an errand, my toddler was at school, and my 9-month-old fell asleep, I followed the Serious recipe inch by inch.

And. Voila!

Yes! Third time’s a… UGH

WTF am I doing wrong?!?!

Wait a second…

NOTHING!

I am doing nothing wrong!

It's the nuts, not the lunatic!

…

You see, I've never roasted chestnuts before.

Truthfully, I don't recall ever eating them, so twice that week I figured it was my fault when I roasted them, peeled them, and saw hairy, weird gray filth in them.

Because everything's my fault.

Even when it happened with two different recipes!

Even when I asked for help, and my knowledgeable, chestnut-loving-step-mother suggested the flaw was in fact with the nuts themselves and not me, I couldn't accept it for two reasons:

1. I have blind faith in my local supermarket — which is widely known for being a top-notch purveyor of produce

2. and such a lack of trust in myself that even after TWO BATCHES OF GRAY HAIRY NUTS (LOL) I went back to the same g-ddamn bin AGAIN and reached in for more ways to throw money into my oven

Well, I got the last laugh because this third batch had some good nuts!

Yes. Good 'ol nuts that roasted perfectly with Alton Brown's support.

Jokes on you, me.

It's not my fault! Ha!

(???????)

My point?

The lesson here isn't just to trust myself, to slow down, or to research more thoroughly before jumping from branch to branch like an acrobat with no net!

Those things are all true and someday I will look at them but today there is an even more satisfying lesson here:

You see, I failed at roasting chestnuts twice before I turned to that aisle full of people at my local market and cried, "Has anyone successfully roasted chestnuts?!"

To which everyone said, "NOPE!"

Remember?

The problem is, that I had attributed this response to some widely held belief that chestnuts are hard to make.

Did you?

In retrospect, however, we can see that this group of 11 or so folks are maybe just not super into driving themselves crazy, aka...

They have never roasted chestnuts before!

Ah!

Over and over, I revisit this moment and I think: why did I assume they all said no because they had failed? They said no because they never did it!

I needed to ask the right question.

Something like, "Has anyone ever roasted chestnuts before?"

See, I was assuming they had roasted them and failed.

I assumed the rumors were true and that it was hard to roast chestnuts.

If I had a clue and asked the right question to my fellow produce lovers, I would've known when the “doubt” struck that day at the bin of nuts that it was the nuts, not the lunatic, and saved myself like $6 bucks in shitty rotten produce!

So anyway —

It turns out it's super fucking easy to roast chestnuts, and that’s why I am writing to you.

I hope my neurotic journey through this forest of lousy nuts will inspire you to try it yourself!

Plus, you can do hard things.

The Tree of Life inside of you won't hold a grudge for failure to ask the right questions. The Tree of Life will provide endless opportunities to gather and try again.

…Side note: during this nutty bakeoff of 2024, I couldn't stop thinking about this ex of mine who once told me the only reason he ever dated me was because he heard I was nuts, and he thought to himself, "No one is more nuts than me."

Anyway —

C’EST-NUTS

by The Giving Tree

This is adapted from serious eats: Heat your oven to 425 and put your empty cast iron inside to warm. Cut an X into your chestnuts. Drop them in boiling water for 30 seconds. Drain them. Pat them dry. Put them in the cast iron pan inside the hot oven.

Think happy thoughts about trees.

Roast for 25 min.

Take your nuts out and peel them as soon as they are cool enough to handle. Put the warm nuts on your temples and think of me.

Cover the chestnuts in salt and share them with your friends and family and gobble them all like…

Share

A BOY NAMED SUE

by The Giving Tree

SHE’S GIVING GRANNY SMITH

by The Giving Tree

Read more

This newsletter is best read in the substack app. If you are reading this in your email you might not see the whole thing. Make sure to click “view entire message”

Subscribe below! and if you like it please share :))

this post contains affiliate links to amazon, etsy, and eBay

Subscribe now

CAPS FOR SALE

by Esphyr Slobodkina

Caps for Sale is an enduring parable from a visionary artist.

Monkey see. Monkey do.

PS. I’ve looked at this book a thousand times without realizing the original art is collage! So. Cool.

MOTHERHOOD

by Caps for Sale

I wake up nose to nose with my toddler.

“Good morning, sweetheart.”

(Big stretch)

“Good morning, mommy.”

“Don’t kiss me.”

and she kisses me.

“Kiss me.”

so I kiss her.

She scrunches, “Mommy, you smell like garlic.”

angry. Not because I care but

because she’s right.

Not because brushing my teeth will make a difference. That’s hilarious.

That’s a fantasy!

You want me to take an old toothbrush to a dormitory toilet bowl?

Dude, the cleaning I need is so deep.

And I need a tool so powerful that it could disrupt the frozen ground beneath a compost waste bin ignored all summer.

A Kalashnikov filled with Dr. Bronner’s? No.

Something that could scour a garage filled with another family’s memories topped with petrified mice being swept into a junk haul truck costing you $1,000 you don’t have. Something that could scrub the stains off the concrete.

Like a flamethrower of bleach. Yeah.

A balloon filled with Bon Ami nerve gas!

Something that would burn off the mold on a burp-cloth floating idol in a bucket of stagnant water for months. Years. Stained with neglect festering up the sleeve.

A red clay sauna from the rocks of Sedona.

I need to soak in a mixture so powerful.

Maybe some kind of tea brewed over centuries heated by the lava inside our ancient planet.

I need…

Layers of skin scrubbed in the back room of a Los Angeles Korean spa. Me, naked on an ironing board in a locker room, getting 2nd-degree burns from an abrasive polish and then doused in buckets, and buckets, and buckets, of milk.

The cleansing I need is so powerful it might require a bath of sound waves.

Yes!

Bowls ringing the muck off.

Or maybe the quiet.

…

I’m an ignored neck fold collecting schmegma. A counter top of salmonella festering next to mucky bowls from a failed recipe three nights ago. The bacteria laugh and the ants march on my face. I am the star of a parade of mucus and puss.

Cat puke-stained forty-year-old rugs.

SOMEONE GET THIS GIRL AN AK-47 OF DEAD SEA MUD

…

My two-year-old is right. I need an overhaul of my nonexistent routine. I need to floss, rinse, and pick my way back to myself. Take care of myself-care.

My daughter can smell I need me. We are connected her and I.

and I respect myself enough to hear her.

Because, even if I don’t know how to care about my-self right now, at the very least, if she sees me trying she might. Riight?

MOMS GET SICK TOO, BREW

by Caps for Sale

This is a ritual not a recipe.

The result is meant to be like a sip-able version of the popular immunity shots juice companies sell.

Typically, I make this brew at the first sign of discomfort or if someone else is sick and I know it’s only a matter of time. While I’m sick, I keep this pot of brew on my stove and reheat it multiple times a day.

If it’s one of those horrible chest cold / head flu body ache situations, I might drink 5 cups of this a day and eat saltines, and that’s what I call self-care.

I was writing this down for some women I care for (here’s to you Amber and Sasha) but I figured I can care for anyone reading this and then you can care for yourself too with a

BATCH OF BREW FOR YOU

First, be sick or on the verge or know you will be sick at some point soon.

Then, bring a pot of water (16 cups) to a rolling boil, then turn off heat.

Now add:

Read more

This newsletter is best read in the substack app. If you are reading this in your email you might not see the whole thing. Make sure to click “view entire message”

Subscribe below! and if you like it please share :))

*this post may contain affiliate links

LITTLE WITCH HAZEL, AUTUMN

by Phoebe Wahl

“An earthy and charming collection of four stories, Little Witch Hazel is an ode to nature, friendship, wild things, and the seasons.

Little Witch Hazel is a tiny witch who lives in the forest, helping creatures big and small. She’s a midwife, an intrepid explorer, a hard worker, and a kind friend.”

Today, we will take our inspiration from the Autumn chapter of this book.

Subscribe now

MOTHERHOOD

by Little Witch Hazel

I’ll admit it. I have a hard time expressing gratitude. And I’m thankful. I am!

But I get scared to say it. Or even think it. Just focusing on it freaks me out. Proclaiming what I’m thankful for gives me the hee-bee-gee-bee’s. You know?

Like — I feel there is something evil waiting in the wind to take it all away.

Wait, what?

What do I really think is going to happen? I’ll say, “I’m thankful for my friends,” and the next thing I know, an earthquake will cause a tsunami, and the East Bay will wash us all away?

It could happen but…

My words don’t have that kind of power. Do they?

If I say “I’m thankful for my hair,” it’s not like it will all fall out? Right? That’s crazy.

Or, I’ll say, “I’m thankful for” — UGH, even now — I’m trying to write what I’m thankful for to make this point, and I’m getting anxious!!!!

Generally speaking I’m a trusting person.

Where does this habitual fear come from? It doesn’t feel like it belongs to me.

Ooooooooh…

Right, people knock on wood.

In Judaism this concept is called “kinahora” which is Yiddish for “no evil eye” — the idea is that evil spirits are hanging around waiting for you to celebrate your life so they can take it all away and if you call out for the evil eye for protection it will stop them!

Great.

Well.

This is INSANE and it ends here. No more spitting. No more knocking on wood. No more uttering phrases that spread fear.

This kind of behavior is irrational, it’s counterproductive, and it’s a shame to pass down to my kids who are not born worried about these evil spirits! In fact, they aren’t born worried about much.

I can be brave and say what I’m thankful for and see what comes…

No.

That’s not it. There’s too much force here. Let me think.

*Deep breath*

…

Today is an opportunity to model for my children that life is unpredictable.

Today is an opportunity to model for my children that we can handle whatever comes our way because we are safe in the deep, knowing that all things are unfolding in every moment just as they should.

Yes, things we love more than anything else in the world can get taken away.

But not by magical evil spirits, although they are fun to think about.

Things change and transform because that’s life.

Loss is part of life. Death is a part of life. Having and not having. Just as the trees bloom and then become bare and bloom again. Just as the people we love hug us and then return home. Just as sometimes, we feel held in our families and sometimes we feel profound loneliness in them. Just as money comes and goes. Just as love feels lost and then arises new again.

All we have is this moment, and in this moment, our words can be very powerful.

Yes.

There is rationality in the magical thinking that our words can have impact on the outcome of our futures.

They can!

For example, right now I will say “I’m thankful for you”

…and just like a kind sprite I’ve touched the light in your heart and shared an inner smile.

Do you feel it? I’ll say it again.

“I’m thankful for you”

Now you say it.

…

This is the only way to use the magic we posses. Not to control our fate but to spread our love. Because it matters what we say. Not because evil spirits will punish us for celebrating. But because we have the opportunity to share good feelings.

Good feelings are contagious. We can spread them. Like magic.

…

Happy Thanksgiving, dear ones. May you use your words to spread the deep knowing you are safe and loved.

And hey, let’s be brave and break some generational trauma together by building…

A THANKFUL TREE

by Little Witch Hazel

Step 1: Gather your family and a few baskets full of clementines (one per person) and go on a walk / hike in the nearest wooded/nature area you can find.

Step 2: Forage branches, twigs, and sticks that call to you, your children, and your father. As you eat the oranges, you’ll have more space in your baskets for the branches you collect.

Don’t worry if the sticks seem too big or too small. If you notice them, gather them. Try to accept every branch your children want. Encourage their participation.

But beware of the dreaded POISON OAK/ IVY!

Learn more here: Poison Oak: Not Just a Summer Problem and here: Pests in Gardens and Landscapes Poison Oak

Poison Oak is a three-leafed plant that grows all over California. The leaves can be green in color, green and orange or red from the summer heat. In fall the leaves will fall but the branches and sticks left can still transfer the poison oak oils to your skin.

How avoid getting Poison Oak:

• Avoid heavy brush areas

• Don’t trail blaze; stay on the path

• Wear long sleeve shirts and pants

• Do not touch fallen sticks or the ground where leaves have fallen (!)

• Beware of petting your animals after they’ve been outside as the oils sit right on top of their fur

• Wash clothing as soon as you get home, as oils will still be present

Poison oak stalks after leaf loss in winter. (Credit: Anne McTavish)

Bonus: During the walk smile at anyone you pass and when they ask what’s up with the basket of twigs, tell them you’re making a thankful tree. Enjoy the smile you get in return.

Step 3: Bring the twigs home and arrange them in a strong, heavy bottom vase

Step 4: Pass out gift tags and markers. Write down what you’re thankful for. Ask everyone to do it, too. Tell the littlest ones to draw and color on theirs.

Step 5: String the gift tags up and knot the string.

Step 6: Hang the notes from the branches. Light a fire or some candles nearby and enjoy your thankful tree.

Step 7: (optional): Decorate your thankful tree. If you do not observe Christmas this is a great opportunity to display all the beautiful ornaments you love. If you already have a Christmas tree, then keep your thankful tree bare with just the notes of thanks and enjoy the stark contrast <3

You don’t need a single thing but sticks for your thankful tree, but here is some inspo:

Read more

Welcome to LOL. A reader supported publication. Each week we feature a children’s book, a creative essay, and fun edits to inspire your own artful curation at home.

Subscribe below! and if you like it please share :))

Share

This week’s LOL is for all my girlie girls. Prepare to be dazzled!

I spent about 9k woman-hours on this one, and due to life, I have to save all Angelina-inspired home, and adult finds for a part 2! I promise I will get it to you soon <3

Meanwhile, at the end of this week’s LOL you’ll find an extra special vintage angelina haul! Enjoy, friends. May we all spread ballerina magic this holiday season.

Oh, and hey! This post may contain affiliate links and I’m SO proud of myself for achieving that! Thank you for supporting my work.

FANFAIRE!

LOL PROUDLY PRESENTS…

ANGELINA BALLERINA

by Katharine Holabird and Helen Craig

A beloved tale about harnessing energy.

MOTHERHOOD

by Angelina Ballerina

Oh man, I hated ballet class.

The memories of my five years young IBS tummy standing awkwardly aware that I wasn’t the star nor the understudy still crawl behind my eyes.

What am I doing wrong?

A beautiful studio. Pristine tights. Matching ribbons. An emotionally resilient 60-something woman waiting patiently to discover my arms and legs don’t communicate.

The point is, no one asked me to be good. All I had to do was enjoy it.

But no. I didn’t. Not at all.

It wasn’t just the shameful congealing of bumper car knees. Joints slipping sideways instead of forward. A thick, fat, stiff, sack unable to pull my frame into sense. The flutter of tulle had more control of itself than me. Still does.

It wasn’t just the pink breath. Flopping feet. Hair sticking out. The sugar plum fairies? Make it stop!

Not just the disjointed, the mediocrity, the intensity of failing into my own body while watching so many girls thrive in front of me; their nourished tummies flowing in time.

Thin tights stuck to wet sweat. Forcing my baby chunk body into a leotard, spandex ‘round shoulders, shoving one arm at a time. A rubber band snapping the gut.

It was all so fucking uncomfortable. But more than any of this. I just remember a pervasive ice-cold sensation.

My chills haunt me even more than watching my own insecurity play out in a giant mirror the length of a building.

But stocking feet are nice, huh? A smooth, unnatural moment.

Maybe this is what a mousling feels like when they glide inside the studio rafters. Climbing. Flipping. Dancing warm in the walls together with their babies.

Mice have all the luck.

Mice wouldn’t notice the string cheese smell of the lavender nylon bag outfitted with my name and a drawing of bubble pink pointe shoes i’d never wear.

But I think now, why would I want to? Ouch.

Ballerinas were mostly underage sex workers that “gentlemen” groomed and kept as pets. And painted. And everyone made money off of their bodies except them.

5,6,7,8

and all of them could move so fluid. Look at these stars, huh?

…

Do you remember the bone-cracking, freezing ick of getting picked up from dance class at 6:45pm on a Wednesday night?

Oh, it’s a flowy, glowy memory for you? Giggles and wiggles?

Did the same parent always pick you up?

And they took you and all the other glittering stars for pizza and ice cream to celebrate that your upcoming vacation to Aruba would be so fun?

And you floated to a domine-smelling home with fresh baked cheddar bunnies at the door?

And you twirled upstairs to your room — the one you’ve slept in since you were a babe and the stickers you hid in the walls sing you to sleep, right?

Not me. After ballet, I was always stuck on a sidewalk or in a lobby with an overtired, malnourished teacher/dancer who smelled like cherries and couldn’t lie fast enough to soothe me.

So by the time it was my turn to chassé out the heavy doors and into the street I was cold. Really fucking cold.

And couldn’t warm up.

No matter whose leather seats my awkward ass slid around on I can only remember my bitter teeth. It’s a rawness you can’t fix with heat. I needed something deep that had escaped my chest in so many waves my blood was thin.

I think I understand now —

The Importance of Warmth

It’s funny because I’m thinking about ballet studios and dance spaces— they aren’t warm institutions, huh?

The idea isn’t come in here and cuddle in the nook of art. Create!

The idea is more like suffer and torture and twist yourself into a pretzel for our entertainment! Who gives a fuck if you’re shivering. Swallow it. It’s less calories than twix.

The ad for Ballet Class: Come in child. Gain poise, grace, respect, discipline, a purpose, and friendships that last a lifetime. Ever been under a spotlight? It’s divine purpose.

The real ad for Ballet Class:

Hey, baby. Do you like to work so hard your toenails peel off? Do you enjoy squeezing your growing body into shapes that are only accessible to .2% of the human race, mostly based on genetics? What is an arch, you ask? Ah, do you walk on air? No? Just the ground?

You poor thing. Let’s fix that.

Here, climb up your own foot, bend your bones, and show us how you walk on air, bitch.

And spin and spin and spin and spin — find your light — and spin and spin — find your light! Look here. Now, spin and spin and spin —

I didn’t take ballet for long, but I can’t remember why I stopped —

KYW. NEWS RADIO. 10 60…on your dial news and traffic on the tens.

I’m in the backseat in someone’s car in Philadelphia…

My head hangs so all I see is the pulsing rhythm of street lights passing over my tights

That wet, repetitive glare of Philadelphia streetlights haunts me something bad

street lights look a lot like spotlights

…

spotlight wind spotlight wind spotlight wind stop

red lights over my tights

click, click, click of the turn signal

now, neon green lights over my tights

spotlight wind spotlight wind spotlight —

“I don’t want to go to ballet anymore”

…

“Why?”

…

“It’s boring”

red lights over my tights

…

“Oh, Jilly… Fine. Just shhh I’m listening to the traffic report.”

faster.

spotlight wind spotlight wind spotlight

“Where are we going?”

My toddler is 2.5 today and I am chewing my cuticles in the passengers seat driving to her first ballet recital …

Twisted into a pretzel so I can get a good look, I study her in the backseat.

She seems curious to spin under a spotlight. Maybe because she’s warm enough? You know what? Next year, I’ll be sure to ask if she wants to sign up for ballet again.

And if she says,

“No, mommy. It’s boring.”

I’ll know what she really means, and I’ll take her right home for some…

CHEDDAR BUNNIES

by Angelina Ballerina

The perfect snack for your tiny dancer <3

Listen, these are 4 ingredients (plus salt), cheaper than the boxed crap, an easy pick me up for your “I’m a good mom” self, a fun activity to do with your kid, and babe you can do it!

okay so, preheat your oven to 325 and line a baking tray with parchment paper

got it? Now —

Pulse 8oz / 1 cup of sharp cheddar cheese (grated), 1 cup of flour, 1/4 cup of cold butter (cubed), and 1/2 teaspoon salt in a food processor — or mix by hand — add in 2 tablespoons of cold whole milk.

Roll out your dough on a floured surface.

For crunchy crackers that snap, roll out your dough THIN, like 1/8 inch and then cut it into bunnies!

Put all your bunnies on the baking tray and poke little happy faces in them if you want to keep them from puffing up :))

Optional: Top with flakes of sea salt

Bake for 18-20 min and eat ‘em up with your babe ! They last about 3 days in an airtight container.

To make them you’ll need:

Read more

In keeping with the spirit of our book this week most items linked below are under $50 with a focus on handcrafted, repurposed, and preloved gifts for friends, neighbors, and your mom — and how to make them yourself!

Also, if you reach the end of this week’s LOL you’ll find the original episode of Reading Rainbow that featured our book. Enjoy <3

THE WONDERFUL TOWERS OF WATTS

by Patricia Zelver and Frané Lessac

A true story about an Italian immigrant who crafted public art in the impoverished Watts neighborhood of Los Angeles.

“Simon (Sam) Rodia had no formal engineering or architectural training.  Yet, over the course of three decades, he constructed an artistic masterpiece in his own backyard – the Watts Towers.

Using things other people had thrown away, such as broken bottles and tiles, pieces of mirror and glass, seashells, and bits of pottery, he adorned the collection of 17 interconnected sculptural towers. His imaginative salvaging and perseverance can be seen today, as people from all over the world still come to marvel at Sam’s dream.”

MOTHERHOOD

by The Wonderful Towers of Watts

My mother was in town and it was a rough visit. We both worked so hard. She didn’t feel appreciated. Neither did I.

We needed an adventure, so I dragged her out of bed to take the kids to see the fairy houses of point richmond.

I think my mother was enchanted.

I know my toddler was awestruck,

and I was stunned.

So, no one asks him to make these?

No.

No one pays this artist?

No.

No one outside of a small area in the East Bay of San Fransisco even knows about or notices this work?

No.

You mean to tell me that for years, out of pure love, this artist crafts whimsy for strangers and neighbors? And all he gets in return is people call him “crazy” and smile?

And all he gets in return is the delight of those around them?

How can I thank you, I thank you.

And I think all we ever get in return is the joy of everyone around us.

Do you see it?

See it. See that all the world moves with the energy you put out and what you create is what you have and what you see and what you grow and how you know if you’re doing it right is if all you see is the happiness of everyone around you.

What other thanks do you need?

Okay. Let’s build you a fairy house. I’ll add petrified moss to the roof and burn my fingertips with hot glue and rip apart my favorite roses. Don’t worry. I won’t even notice. I’ll be too busy covering a tiny chair in broken amethyst and painting it all pink through the window so it glitters when the light hits it just so.

Considering every point of view your sparkling eyes could catch I’ll paint it again.

Then I’ll crawl on the bathroom floor and empty my poisoned stomach and think only of finishing your fairy house so that you can wake up and see the light on and know someone will always be home.

I just want you to know it. I don’t need you to say it.

So, I’ll stay up into the middle of the full moon and dream of your delicate fingers opening the front door and smelling the honey spelt biscuits and the well done cheeze-itz and maybe you’ll try one. Don’t forget a slice of the butter we made and the ginger honey too!

It won’t matter if you eat the biscuits. There is also a plate full of moonlight. You can have that.

I cry because I’ll never really know you. Even if you’re my own mother. But I hope you see my light on and the happiness of everyone around you.

Then you’ll know I’ve been there with you.

It won’t matter if you think I’m crazy or not.

FOR YOUR MOTHER

by The Wonderful Towers of Watts

Read more

MOTHER, MOTHER I WANT ANOTHER

by Maria Polushkin & Jon Goodell

Published in 1978, this comedy of errors illustrates that all our children ever need is our presence. Our confidence is a fantastic bonus.

MOTHERHOOD

by Mother, Mother I Want Another

Read more

by L. Frank Baum and W.W. Denslow

An iconic 1900 novel exploring the idea that people already possess what they think they lack.

Some readers believed the seemingly simple fairy tale actually explored more complex political and societal issues. Notably, the book has been seen as a feminist work.

Some consider Dorothy one of the first feminist heroes in children’s literature

Suffragettes and Silver Shoes: Dorothy’s Feminism in The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

“As a protagonist, Dorothy acts as a model of a developing feminist. She is influenced by other women as she goes on her journey, and when she finally recognizes the authority being given to her, she claims it and internalizes it in a way that transforms her. She learns that a woman can be authoritative and nurturing like the stork and small yet powerful like the mouse. These lessons help her to realize that she can be an empowered feminist who willfully takes ownership of authority while still returning to domestic life, proving that domestic life does not signify a failure as an empowered woman. Therefore, Dorothy’s choice to go home to Kansas in no way demonstrates an inadequacy to live up to feminist ideas of empowerment. To misinterpret Dorothy’s return is to reject that she has the will to act on her own desires, thus rejecting that women have the power to transform the places where they assert authority. Dorothy, the willful woman, chooses to return home, where she will be an empowered woman who empowers her community. Through Dorothy’s adventure and self-development, she proves that a new definition of womanhood is sometimes just three heel-clicks away.”

MOTHERHOOD

by The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

Motherhood and the power of suggestion.

A few weeks ago, my toddler ran into the middle of a pitch-black, winding road. I’m ashamed to say I didn't even see her do it.

We were leaving a friend's house. I was at their front door, kissing them thanks. My husband went ahead of me to put the overtired baby in our car, parked across the street.

At some point, in a universe of goodbyes, the tiny toddler slipped by me and onto the blacktop. I imagine she went after her father to help him.

Even though I would've sworn she was by my side when her father started the car, the headlights shone, and I saw her tiny silver frame sparkling in the spotlight.

My yell was something deep and wicked, echoing and swirling the neighborhood like a violent wind.

…

Once she was tucked in bed, the panic set in.

I spent the night hallucinating her being hit over and over by a stoned teenager, an exhausted truck driver, a crazed ballet mom on their cell phone. I saw her dead under a house, her little silver shoes sticking out.

I'll do better. I'll be more vigilant. I'll never take my eyes off her again. I'll buy a harness!

I woke up in a daze having slept in a poison poppy field of my own imagination.

My hands and eyes won’t always be on her. How can I teach her to never go into the street alone?

A good Witch Waldorf teacher once said if I want to teach a child a lesson, I should tell them a story about the topic and always have a positive outcome.

I'm a storyteller. How hard could this be?

But I walked about it for days rehearsing over and over trying to find the right words and tone.

A little girl ran into the middle of the street, and she got very hurt because she didn't have her mommy and daddy with her. Her mommy cried. And her daddy cried and the little girl died.

My anxiety was in the way.

There once was a little girl who ran into the middle of the street. She was so small that when a car drove by, it couldn't see her, and it ran her over. She was bleeding, and her bones were broken. She went to the hospital, and she never ever saw her mommy again.

Oy.

One dark evening, a little girl ran into the street without her mommy and daddy, and she was carried off by winged monkeys to an evil queen's castle!

Is parenting writer's block a thing? Pretty sure I’m not supposed to traumatize her.

...

A few days later as I was driving her to school --

"Mommy?"

"Yes, honey"

"Remember when I ran into the street?"

Here's my chance!

"Yes, I think it's time to tell you the story about The Little Girl who ran into the street…"

...

...

...

"What happened?" she muttered.

I had never heard this tone from her before. She sounded so scared. So curious. So desperate for help. Lost and longing for home.

Suddenly, it hit me! The answers were within her. All I had to do was show her the way. I didn't have to tell her what happened to the little girl! Whatever she was imagining was much worse and more complex. Who knows what horrible images she was cooking up!

MWAHAHA.

"Yes dear, I had better tell you the story about the little girl who ran into the street."

"Tell me now."

"Not today, darling. But someday soon. Someday very, very soon."

CHAPTER VIII.

by The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

Read more

by Jon Stone and Michael Smollin

“In early ’71, during Sesame Street’s second season, Jon Stone boarded a cross-country flight with a yellow legal pad and an anxious mind (he hated flying).

By the time the wheels kissed the tarmac in California he’d written The Monster at the End of This Book.”

Jon Stone, the first head writer for Sesame Street, and one of the show's directors and producers for 24 years, had created a masterpiece out of angst.

Anxiety into art.

The Monster at the End of This Book is often credited as one of the first meta books for children and it has inspired a generation of artists.

Including lovable, furry, old, me.

MOTHERHOOD

by The Monster at the End of This Book

Did I just call myself an artist??

UGHHHH

I am feeling so much shame about this “mom blog.” Yes, the one you’re currently reading.

PLEASE DON’T READ ON! THIS IS EMBARRASSING!

My recent intrusive thoughts about this blog in no particular order:

Are people rolling their eyes when they read this? Do I come across obnoxious? Am I obnoxious? Am I wasting my time? Will people think I’m mentally ill? Will people read this and not want to be my friend? Will they think I’m lame? Am I lame?

Why can’t I write in a straightforward, concrete, technical, and easily digestible way? Why is my writing so weird? Why am I so weird?

Who gives a shit what I think? I am not good at ANYTHING. I shouldn’t spend my time writing this. I’m a loser! I’m a failed artist. I’m a terrible writer.

PEOPLE CAN TELL I’M A TERRIBLE WRITER BECAUSE THEY ARE READING THIS!

STOP READING THIS!!!!

UGHHHH

You are right, I should be using this time to read to my kids, or workout, or support a friend, or my community, or lose weight, or exercise, or get a job writing. Yes.

…

THINGS I CAN WRITE:

Meta one-act plays, movies that are never made, TV pilots that are never made, short films based on the worst parts of my life, bad poems, journal entries about my feelings, chaotic rants aka monologues, long emotional text messages about my opinions and feelings that I sometimes stop myself from sending, and silly songs narrating mundane life for my kids.

I can also write unproductive emails.

Oh! and to-do lists that never end.

—

MY TO-DO LIST THIS WEEK:

My whole identity is being a mom. I’m not even good at being a mom.

No, wait, that was an intrusive thought. See? I can’t even write this!

TO DO LIST THIS WEEK:

get: a job.

make: a scarecrow (check), troll clips, a puppet theater, cheddar cheese-itz, collagen marshmallows, sense.

buy: lil’ warm boots for school, lil’ big girl bed, large ziplock bags, a house.

do: find voice note of mommom from 8 years ago since she said something important I can’t remember from before she lost her memory, put out candles for bath time, walk, apologize to all the moms I’ve shamed.

…

Recently, I read another mom writer’s thoughts on writing about motherhood on substack and while I really enjoyed the read I was overwhelmed with shame afterwards. So much so that I wanted to quit this mom blog.

Then I remembered no one is even asking me to write this mom blog and quitting felt so self-serious that I LOL’d at myself!

But then I thought —

Isn’t it wild how easily women can shame one another without even trying?

Did I shame you recently? Was it something I said? Or didn’t say? Was it something I did? Or didn’t do? Did I shame you just by finding time to write this sentence? I understand. If I did shame you, I’m sorry.

Anyway, I read this other writer mom’s thoughts about how she feels shame about writing about being a mom and now I feel stupid about Library of Love aka LOL and about being a failed artist with no identity other than being a mom!

Is shame contagious?

I’m spiraling so bad I thought I poisoned my husband with chicken sausage I cooked and then boiled for over an hour.

…

Hey, before you jump for your phone to text me that I’m not a crappy writer or a flaming pile of garbage as an artist — I gotta tell you — you can’t help me with any of these bad feelings.

I wish you could and I really appreciate the thought but —

The praise and soothing I need isn’t external. It’s something that can only come from inside me. That’s Sesame Street 101, baby!

So, who is the monster at the end of this blog?

MY TERRIBLE ART! BOO!

But the thing is, my terrible art is also how I soothe myself through life, and it feels good even if…

Take it away Grover!

HIGH AND LOW

by The Monster at the End of This Book

Read more

STONE SOUP

by Ann Mcgovern and Winslow Pinney Pels

A classic tale about the importance of sharing and the value of storytelling.

MOTHERHOOD

by Stone Soup

With a creamy pie in the oven and crunchy green cabbage in my bra I sweep up the kitchen.

Upstairs, an insulted sorcerous summersaults in her crib. Restless.

…

Even with a whole floor between us I can feel your dissatisfaction raining down. You want milk. My milk. And you want it now.

“No, baby” I whisper as I sweep buttery pumpkin guts into our dry, cracked wood floor. “You aren’t even hungry. I know it’s hard but—”

You howl, protesting in sustained gasps. Your shrieks shatter the space between my eyes.

“It’ll be okay,” I manage.

BAM.

Your chemical cries dart knives at my nipples. My breasts distend. Now, I’m clutching my broom, howling at the kitchen walls on my hands and knees weaning. Pleading! Ripping the wilted cabbage out of my shirt.

Stop! Please!

You bellow, roasting me in an oven of my own juices. I’m screaming to get out.

I think,

the 40th time I quit smoking. That was the last I felt a furor this feverish. An all consuming rage inducing sweaty black out of wanting.

So horny I can’t swallow. So desperate to halt a delirious tickle. From ecstasy to fever in a flick. Bile wildfire choking smoke with an unattainable fresh wet fog on the horizon.

The sensation is massive. The thirst cracks my throat. Sweating over a broken air conditioner doesn’t compare to this ache.

This nature need is so strong it creates pores in my skin.

“I can’t.”

You yowel, bright, forcing me to squeeze my nipples into my left sock.

“Take pity on me!”

But you don’t.

I’m a messy trash pile. A domestic freak show. I’m making laundry for myself when I could just —

Shit. Hand expressing isn’t cutting it. I’m raging. Mounting. Writhing. I scan my home for any solution. The Spectra S1 buried in the garage cackles in haunting whispers about dirty flanges and incorrect gages and missing backflow protectors and bacterial infested tubbing and “go fuck yourself” is all I can retort.

“Babe?”

Great. Our collective shouting has summoned the man we love. I can smell he is trying to reason if I need an ambulance or a journal.

“Honey?”

“Don’t look at me.”

“Honey, just go feed the baby.”

This isn’t a debate I am equipped to have right now and I know it. My will power is losing to mother nature.

“JUST GO FEED THE BABY?! WHY DIDN’T I THINK OF THAT?!” I spit.

He rolls his eyes. This sends me spiraling.

He’s right. This doesn’t need to be so horrible. I can make this all better. I can end the pain—

“UGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Broom in hand I BLASTOFF up three stairs at a time. My toddler’s eyes fall out of her head.

Suddenly, I’m in the nursery. Did I go through the ceiling? Who knows!

Now, I’m rocking in our chair in a river of stunning sweet relief. A long heavenly beat.

*Exhales. *Sighs. *Moans.

“Coo”

You drink gallons and gallons and we’re both indulging in a milky bliss. A satisfied, euphoric rebirth. We fit together in perfection.

YES!

NO!

We are weaning, baby! This isn’t weaning. This is nursing. What time is it? 4:03pm?! I lasted all day and caved at the witching hour?

A cold wind blows from the hole my broom made in the floor.

I’m disgusted with myself. We were doing so well. How did this happen?

I retrace my fit. I was sweeping. There’s the broom. A trail from her crib to the rocking chair. Her sleep sack. My milk soaked left sock. A hair thing I swore was still holding my face up and piles and piles and piles of green wilted cabbage.

*gags

The baby smiles, choking on the bits of cabbage still stuck to my chest.

Fancy that.

CABBAGE LEAVES AND WEANING

by Stone Soup

Tired of being your babies pacifer? Struggling with over supply? Desperate for physical autonomy? Grab some green cabbage!

Using cabbage leaves for weaning is an effective way to dry up your milk supply.

Leave the cabbage on your breasts until they begin to wilt and repeat the treatment as many times a day as you want.

It may take several days for your milk to dry up with this method and your baby might choke on it if you forget it’s there.

KITCHEN WITCH

by Stone Soup

A kitchen witch is any individual who brings intentional, energetic work into their use of food as medicine or witchcraft!

KITCHEN WITCH

by Stone Soup

A kitchen witch is also a homemade poppet or doll displayed in kitchens to ward off bad spirits and (most importantly) bad cooking.

Read more

by Kevin Henkes

The story of a brave (and hungry) kitten who believes the moon is a bowl of milk and tries to drink it!

She battles the elements only to find everything she needs is right at home.

MOTHERHOOD

by Kitten’s First Full Moon

Almost every evening for the last 2.5 years we have shared the same rhythm. So far, tonight has been no exception. Dinner. Bath. Nightgown.

Now, normally I would take you to the window. As I’d close the curtains across the dusk I’d say something like “I see the moon and the moon sees me. Goodnight mamas. Goodnight papas. Goodnight kittens. Goodnight friends.”

We’d name your grandparents, your cousins, your classmates. Sometimes we’d sing a song. Then, I’d wake up your nightlight while I pour you into your canopy. I’d sit on the floor to read you something wonderful again. Again.

You’d have a hair twirling, finger sucking, good time as you drift off.

Eventually, I’d fall up and say “goodnight fairies, goodnight feet,” and spin your mobile once so they dance as I leave. Sometimes you ask for cheese or peanut butter puffs.

On my way out, I’d offer a kiss to your mezuzah for protection and close your door, moving the handle in such a way so that it never, ever, slams.

Then, it would be my time and I’d fill it with screens and dreams under curtains. Sometimes, the moon winks from my window.

…

But tonight, none of this happens. Yes, dinner, bath, nightgown

But, it’s 132 degrees inside our home for the 601st night in a row and heat rises and it’s trapped inside your canopy.

So, instead of pouring you into bed and crawling into mine like we do all the time, we wade down the stairs out of sorts.

I am feeling you curious, anxious, about what’s next if it’s not fairies and feet. Maybe it’s just me.

Through the darkness of the living room, a place we never go at this hour, I see shadows of your father giving your sister a sparkling glass bottle of cold milk. I catch gray outlines of windows and silhouettes of doors flung open.

Do you see all the bugs in search of water delighting in your glittering things? They seem happy.

But, I’m feeling disappointed that we can’t read a story in this darkness, and I make up you are too. I’m not even sure where we should sit. It’s hot all around and I’ve lost all energy to fight against the elements.

Defeated I offer,

“We’ll take a rest outside.” Our beloved black kitty Myo follows us out.

I’m not usually under the night sky with you. Or much at all since your first weeks. It’s mysterious and new to be here.

Heartbeats after I find my way onto a lounge chair I realize I’ve made the best choice possible. We’ve switched places with the bugs and can delight in their glittering things. Nothing between us and the hanging moon.

You crawl all over me, a wiggling, happy thing. My kitten. Finally, nestling in.

I brush your pony-tail out of my eyes and thousands of stars are there. Look. More. They burn and sparkle. Planes like watercolors in the darkness. A satellite?

How funny. We never do this. Just you and me amused by the sky. A wonderful story I don’t have to read. An hour of silent spinning awe passes.

It’s wild. You feel so new here to me. It’s like the night we met. Just like then we’re not asleep but now I get to ask you —

“What are thinking about?”

“I want to hold it” you whisper painting the moon with the tips of your fingers.

“I understand,” I breathe. “I am.”

NURSERY GRAHAMS & KITTEN’S MILK

by Kitten’s First Full Moon

Preheat oven to 350°. Sift 3 cups flour, 1 tsp. baking soda, 1 tsp. cinnamon and 1/2 tsp. salt together. Mix 1 cup of cold chopped butter, 3/4 cup of brown sugar and 3 tbls honey until light and fluffy. Add flour mixture and 1/8 cup of water until combined.

Roll dough on floured surface to 1/8” thickness. Use teddy cookie cutters

or trim dough to a rectangle shape. Cut dough into squares, rectangles or diamonds and transfer to cookie sheet. Prick each cracker lightly with a fork.

Bake 8 - 9 minutes, rotating cookie sheet halfway through until crackers are a dark, golden brown. Cool on tray for 5 minutes then transfer crackers to wire rack. The crackers become crisp as they cool.

Serve with a “kitten” bowl of whole milk. Yummy.

Adapted from a recipe by: GoldenDaysAtHome

KITTEN’S AND MILK

by Kitten’s First Full Moon

PSA: Cow’s Milk is TERRIBLE for cats and kittens!

The association between cats and milk has been perpetuated through historical feeding practices, popular culture, folklore, and media. However, it is important to recognize that milk is not a necessary or suitable part of a cat’s diet.

By debunking the myth of cats and milk, and embracing a holistic approach to cat care, we can provide our feline friends with the love, care, and nutrition they deserve.

For a special treat to bond try Greenies or Churu instead :)

BUG ON YOUR TONGUE

by Kitten’s First Full Moon

Say it three times fast!

'Kitty caught the kitten in the kitchen.'

‘Many mumbling mice are making merry music in the moonlight.’

‘You've no need to light a night-light,
On a light night like tonight,
For a night-lights light's a slight light,
And tonight's a night that's light.

When a night's light, like tonight's light, It is really not quite right, To light night-lights with their slight lights, On a light night like tonight.’

KID’S FANCY FEMME BLACK KITTEN COSTUME

by Kitten’s First Full Moon

Read more

by Caron Ellis

A tale of halves and wholes, mystics (aka cats), and finding oneself in the uncomfortable and fascinating child like state of liminality.

Liminality an anthropological term, derived from the Latin limen, which means ‘threshold’. Liminality refers to the ambivalence, confusion, or disorientation experienced in the middle stage of a rite of passage.

The first or pre-liminal stage is the stage of separation; the middle or liminal stage is the stage of transition; the third or post-liminal is the stage of re-integration.

During the liminal stage, the participant’s identity, their relationship to their environment, family, and, more broadly, society, as well as their relationship to time, space, and existence as such, is in flux.

In more general terms, liminality refers to a state of flux and in-between-ness in which the dominant or governing logic of a given situation is temporarily suspended.

To be in a state of liminality is in itself surreal so why not make art about it!

An excerpt from the Tate on…

The art of Surrealism aims to revolutionize human experience.

It balances a rational vision of life with one that asserts the power of the unconscious and dreams. The movement’s artists find magic and strange beauty in the unexpected, uncanny, disregarded and unconventional.

At the core of their work is the willingness to challenge imposed values and norms, in the search for freedom.

The word ‘surrealist’ (suggesting ‘beyond reality’) was coined by the French avant-garde poet Guillaume Apollinaire in 1917 as the preface to his play —

The Breasts of Tiresias Plot

Thérèse is a bored housewife, fed up with her tedious husband and more interested in being a soldier. As she dreams of how life would be if she were a man, her breasts (in the form of balloons) float up into the air and explode, as she starts to grow a beard.

She becomes a powerful general and is off to war. Her husband in turn becomes a woman, produces 40,000 children (all in one afternoon), which is more than the town can feed. In the end the pair reunite to make love not war.

In the play, Thérèse, is inspired by Theban soothsayer Teiresias who changes her sex to obtain power among men, with the aim of changing customs, subverting the past, and establishing equality between the sexes.

Pietro della Vecchia Le Devin Tirésias se métamorphosant en femme

MOTHERHOOD AKA THE ART OF ARGUING WITH YOUR SELF

by In The Half Room

*TRIGGER WARNING FOR MARITAL DISCOURSE. Please skip if this is a tender topic. I’m with you <3

…

I am married and The Marriage is its own character in my life.

In order to be healthy The Marriage has needs. Its needs are: to be nourished, protected, honored and respected.

The Marriage has goals. Its goals are: to create the house for ourselves and our children to thrive in.

The Marriage is coming up on its 5 year wedding anniversary.

Isn’t that nice?

Oh shit. Look out!

We’ve been fighting this entire week. I want to rip my breasts off and go to war. I am so furious. So indignant my needs aren’t being met. So passionate about my POV!

I am Joan of Arc. My therapist calls her “The Advocate” but I like Joan.

Books will tell you that fighting is natural — what’s important is to learn how to do it.

I know how! I’m Joan of Arc for fucksakes. What you do is identify who is the cause of your current discontent, search your soul for all the pain you’ve ever felt related to it, and then punish your opponent as hard as you can in whatever way you can!

For example, I like to tell them how they have wronged me and what they should be doing instead. The meanest things I can spit out I do.

Right?

Or? No?

That’s not it, huh? That doesn’t help The Marriage?

Oh I know. You distance yourself! Yes. You put your nose up in the air, lock doors, put up walls, and a lot of space between yourself and your opponent err partner — and you enjoy the peaceful space with just you— until one of you breaks and humbly sees how wrong they are, and then come back together so they can grovel!

No?

So what? I’m supposed to like pause till I’m emotionally regulated and then work with him? Understand his POV? How? He has no valid POV as far as I can see.

“I should have a partner who xxx”

“I want to have someone who makes me feel xxx”

“You need to work on XXXX and won’t!”

“How could you xxx to me?”

“How do you not know xxx”

“You need to xxxx in order for me to xxx!”

Basically…

“WHY ARE YOU NOT ME?!”

Oh, right, I am married to someone who is not myself. Fuck.

…

We’re two halves of a whole. He’s half The Marriage.

But I don’t want to be his better half when I can be a whole!

…

But, The Marriage.

Right, I’m not married to myself.

…

Oh no. Is he my better half?

Better half (the whole story)

Q: I’m curious about “better halves.” When did the term come to mean spouses?

A: When “better half” appeared in the mid-16th century, it meant “the larger portion of something” or “more than half,” according to the Oxford English Dictionary.

The earliest OED citation is from a religious treatise defending the Roman Catholic Church against criticism by the Church of England:

“it woulde well lacke the better halfe of jx. yeres [nine years].” From A Return of Untruths (1566), by the Roman Catholic theologian Thomas Stapleton, responding to a treatise by John Jewel, the Church of England’s Bishop of Salisbury.

The usual sense now, which the OED defines as “a person’s husband, wife, or (in later use) partner,” appeared in the late 16th century.

The first citation is from The Countesse of Pembrokes Arcadia, a pastoral romance by Sir Philip Sidney, published posthumously in 1590, four years after the author’s death:

“My deare, my better halfe (said hee) I finde I must now leaue thee” (the dying Argalus is speaking here to his wife Parthenia).

The dictionary doesn’t have any citations for plural versions of “better half.” The earliest examples we’ve found in searches of digitized books are from the 18th century. Here are two of them:

• “ ‘I am happy to acknowledge, that, though we have no gods to occupy a mansion professedly built for them, yet we have secured their better halves, for we have goddesses to whom we all most willingly bow down.’ ” From Evelina (1778), by the English novelist Fanny Burney. (Lord Orville is speaking to Captain Mirvan.)

• “I trust the example of our better halfs will tempt the ladies all to emulate those virtues which have made us for ever renounce the follies of fashion, and devote our future lives to that only real comfort which heaven has bestowed on mortals—virtuous, mutual, wedded love.” From The Ton; or Follies of Fashion (1788), a comic play by the Scottish author Eglantine Wallace. (Lord Raymond is speaking to Lady Raymond.)

In case you’re wondering, both “better halfs” and “better halves” were common in the late 18th century, but “better halves” has been the usual plural for the last two centuries,  according to a comparison with Google’s Ngram Viewer.

The OED says the phrase “better half” has had two other senses, “a close and intimate friend” (1596) and “a person’s soul” (1629), but the first is now rare and the second obsolete.

We should add that in the spousal sense, “better half” is often used affectionately or in a semi-humorous way.

Finally, here are a few other alternatives for “husband” or “wife,” and the dates of their earliest OED citations: “spouse” (before 1200), “partner” (1577), “helpmate” (1815), and “ball and chain” (1921).

Semi-humors? Screw you.

He’s not my better half. I’m not his better half.

We are equals. Halves of whole. No sicker. No worse. No perspective that’s more true.

Just two halves of a whole The Marriage.

…

My goal is to create a metaphorical home for myself and my children to flourish in.

That’s The Marraige’s goal too.

OK.

…

Let me think. What can I do right now to support The Marriage?

…

No. I’ve tried everything! It’s him causing the breakdown!

He always starts it! I have so much on my plate. I do everything!

(deep breath)

OK. When we argue I often think it’s him who causes the fires between us but…

Maybe it’s me too?

Oh, it’s me too.

My chaos. My fantasy. My rage. My entitlement. My romantic individualist nature. My ancestors. My heart. My trauma. What my parents did or didn’t do. What I expect. My volume. My absence. My compassionate lack of understanding. My agendas.

My righteousness.

It’s things I can’t even see yet. Things I’m in the middle of. It’s just also me.

Me me me me me.

…

It’s him. But it’s me too.

…

And there is certainly no sense in arguing with myself.

I will win. I will lose. I am the whole thing.

The Marriage is me. The House is me. The children. My partner. We.

…

Truly, I am in liminality so don’t expect any big revelations except —

A great book for him and me is US by Terrence Real

…

And the best advice I ever got was “run toward The Marriage,” so please excuse me while I run to put our house back together because everything has been halved…

HALF CHAIR ON HALF A FLOOR

by In The Half Room

BENJAMIN NORDSMARK Fuco Ueda Chair

Philipp Aduatz Folded Chair

Surrealist Stiletto Accent Chair

Black Figure Chair (source unknown), Sarita Nanni Chair, Charlap Hyman & Herrero Deli Rose Chair, Ada Blecher Copula Chair, Chairchill Sculpture, Merve Kahraman Chair

HALF VASE

by In The Half Room

Wretched Flowers Vase

Corsi Design Vase

Patrizia Italiano Vase

INICERAMIQUE Vase

Francesco Ardini Vase, Reinaldo Sanguino Vase, Mid Century Plaster Vase, Niko June Vessel, SLORENCE Ring Vase

HALF CAT

by In The Half Room

HALF A CHILD’S HAT

by In The Half Room

La Coqueta Berret, Monnalisa Beret, Jacadi Beret, Garbo&Friends Beret, Vintage Fascinator, Catya Hat

TWO SHOES EACH HALF

by In The Half Room

Regency Era Half Boots: Ankle high boots for women, typically for outdoor wear, often made of kid leather, but sometimes of sturdy cloth, such as jean or even velvet. They are flat-soled, and laced up the front or the side.

“Emma was not inclined to give herself much trouble for his entertainment, and after hard labour of mind, [Lord Osborne] produced the remark of its being a very fine day, and followed it up with the question of:  ”Have you been walking this morning?”

“No my lord, we thought it too dirty.” (Unpleasant, stormy.)“You should wear half boots.” After another pause: “Nothing sets off a neat ankle more than a half boot; nankeen galoshed with black looks very well. Do not you like half boots?”

“Yes; but unless they are so stout as to injure their beauty, they are not fit for country walking.”

– Jane Austen, The Watsons

HISTORY OF WOMEN’S HALF BOOTS - Jane Austens World

HALF A FILM

by In The Half Room

Row 1: Vintage French Beauty & The Beast Poster, A Woman is a Woman Poster

Row 2: 1980 Someone To Watch Over Me Poster, 1960s Serigraph, 52nd NYFF Poster

Row 3: Contempt Movie Poster, French festival of Cinema 1993 Poster, Le Gai Savoir Poster, Lily Aime Moi Poster (not pictured)

THE END

by In The Half Room

Our copy of In The Half Room was gifted to us by someone special who I cannot recall! Was it you? Please reach out so I can thank you!
….

The Author of US on…