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My regular column, "As They Grow," explores the many joys and occasional woes of parenting. It appears in every other issue of Family Times magazine. | |
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Latest column: |
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A recent Monday morning dawned sadly at our house, with Helen in despair over the haircut she’d had two days before. Over toast left sodden by a slow leak of tears, she insisted that she could not go to school with such short hair because all the kids would laugh at her. I was less certain that her fellow kindergarteners–who usually sport their own collection of self-snipped bangs and untamed snarls–would be so pitiless, but she would not be consoled. . . .
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Little babies make me a bit nervous these days. I first realized it this past summer, when we welcomed Ned and Helen’s new cousin to the family. As I awkwardly handled that small sleeping bundle, it struck me that it’s been so long since I mindlessly scooped up my own babies that I’m no longer comfortable with the weightless fragility of the newborn. . . .
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Past Columns: |
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Always an easy target for a quick laugh, the family
vacation’s comedic potential was long ago strip-mined beyond reclamation. But
the fundamental truth still remains, at least for me: when it comes to bang for the buck, the yearly getaway tends
to be a hit-or-miss proposition. . . .
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Early this summer, Helen and I traveled to Chicago for a
memorial service for my maternal grandfather, who died this year at a
well-ripened 96. Even as the family mourned the passing of its patriarch, we
marveled at the durability and independence of a man who reached nearly a
century with both his intellect and his driver’s license completely intact. . . . Full text. |
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Is there anything more wonderful about being alive than the
simple act of eating? I don’t think so, which is why I fall squarely in the
camp of the food worshippers, driven to prepare and share meals with others and
to seek out culinary adventure in all sorts of happy and unexpected places. You can imagine, then, my disappointment that Ned and Helen have turned out to possess entirely pedestrian palates. . . . Full text. |
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This past October, our family joined a weekend retreat to the woods with a group from our church. As is now the global standard, the weather was unseasonably warm, the days as golden as the forest around us, so that people moved fluidly between indoors and out. Although nominally a camping trip, there were no tents required (which explains my willingness to take part). Instead, families stayed in a series of rustic little cabins, arranged in a meandering circle around the group dining hall where we prepared and took our meals together.
About 12 hours into our stay, Ned and Helen made the delightful discovery that they could navigate the winding path to our cabin all by themselves. . . . Full text. |
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When my son Ned turned one, we threw a big cocktail party in his honor. More than 50 adults packed into our house while ten of his best friends toddled around the understory. Everyone raised a toast to him, but I knew that it was really all about us and our self-congratulatory amazement that we’d survived our first year of parenting. What I didn’t realize was that five years later, my kids’ parties would still be elaborate affairs, brimming with people and noise, requiring weeks of preparation, and resulting in a confetti of crumbs and spilled drinks. It’s a little surprising given my general disdain for spectacle and my supposed desire to live more simply, but somehow I became one of those parents who breaks out the sewing machine and the hot glue gun at the first sign of an approaching birthday. . . . Full text. |
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I wonder how many new
parents realize that their dewy, innocent little bundles might someday exhibit
a cheerful bloodlust worthy of Genghis Khan. Not many, I’d venture. I know that it never occurred to me that my firstborn, Ned, might harbor
a warrior’s soul somewhere under his onesie. . . . Full text.
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Most people can tell when a small child is wearing apparel that is not of a parent’s choosing. Little boys are not immune to the phenomenon—I have a friend whose young son has worn a pint-sized Home Depot apron almost every waking moment for the last year and a half. But few can deny that girls corner the market on outlandish, self-selected fashion. Whether it’s a halter-top and flip-flops at a Christmas party, or a satin princess dress and gossamer fairy wings at the neighborhood park, for some kids, the desire to be fabulous will trump common sense and “appropriate,” every single time. . . . Full text. |
One day last summer, I spent the morning staffing an informational booth at our neighborhood farmer’s market. It was a beautiful day, perched just at the cusp of early fall, when the harvest is at its most bountiful and the weather at its most gracious. People seemed particularly at ease and happy as they moved from booth to booth, greeting acquaintances, sipping lattes, and exclaiming over the tomatoes. Children flitted about, weaving through the forest of adult legs and leashed dogs, fueled by fresh-baked, high-octane monster cookies. My two kids had stayed home with their dad, leaving me free to enjoy the childless peace and quiet. . . . Full text. |
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As parents, we are
so accustomed to our veneer of civilized adult behavior that we can sometimes
forget the furious childhood brawls that many of us had with our siblings. I
know that when I was pregnant with our second child, Helen, I worried about
many aspects of parenting two kids, but the prospect of refereeing a couple
decades of bloody scuffles and screaming matches didn’t even cross my mind. . . .Full text. | |
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