I say this not in sorrow but in disbelief.
The placid baby with the yellow ringlets and the high piping voice. The sturdy toddler with the lower lip that curled into an apostrophe above her chin. I say this not in sorrow but in disbelief.
I take great satisfaction in what I have today: Three people who read the same books I do and have learned not to be afraid of disagreeing with me in their opinion of them, who sometimes tell vulgar jokes that make me laugh until I choke and cry, who need razor blades and shower gel and privacy, who want to keep their doors closed more than I like.
Who, miraculously, go to the bathroom, zip up their jackets and move food from plate to mouth all by themselves. Like the trick soap I bought for the bathroom with a rubber ducky at its center, the baby is buried deep within each, barely discernible except through the unreliable haze of the past.
Everything in all the books I once pored over is finished for me now. The ones on sibling rivalry and sleeping through the night and early-childhood education, all grown obsolete. But I suspect that if you flipped the pages dust would rise like memories. Raising children is presented at first as a true-false test, then becomes multiple choice, until finally, far along, you realize that it is an endless essay.
No one knows anything. One child responds well to positive reinforcement, another can be managed only with a stern voice and a timeout.
One boy is toilet trained at 3, his brother at 2. When my first child was born, parents were told to put baby to bed on his belly so that he would not choke on his own spit-up. By the time my last arrived, babies were put down on their backs because of research on sudden infant death syndrome.
To a new parent this ever-shifting certainty is terrifying, and then soothing. Eventually you must learn to trust yourself. Eventually the research will follow. I remember 15 years ago poring over one of Dr.
I was looking for a sub-quiet codicil for an month-old who did not walk. Was there something wrong with his fat little legs?
Was there something wrong with his tiny little mind? Was he developmentally delayed, physically challenged? Last year he went to China. Next year he goes to college. He can talk just fine. Every part of raising children is humbling, too.
Believe me, mistakes were made.
The outbursts, the temper tantrums, the bad language, mine, not theirs. The times the baby fell off the bed.
The times I arrived late for preschool pickup. The horrible summer camp. The day when the youngest came barreling out of the classroom with a 98 on her geography test, and I responded, What did you get wrong?On Being Mom, by Anna Quindlen Posted on August 15, August 15, by Kelly Salasin The pensive infant with the swipe of dark bangs and the blackbutton eyes of a Raggedy Andy doll.
Mar 22, · Anna Quindlen was one of my first editors. I was a clerk on the Metro desk back then, and she was the Deputy Metropolitan Editor. When I was granted the precious four-week tryout that would eventually land me a spot as a reporter, Anna made sure to send me on assignments that would allow me to shine.
Use of Rhetoric in Anna Quindlen's "Evan’s Two Moms" - The essay, “Evan’s Two Moms”, was written by Anna Quindlen and published in The New York Times and the edition of Good Reasons with Contemporary Arguments.
- The essay, “Evan’s Two Moms”, was written by Anna Quindlen and published in The New York Times and the edition of Good Reasons with Contemporary Arguments.
Also, this essay takes a liberal point of view concerning gay marriage and the ability to raise a child in a gay family.
On Being Mom by Anna Quindlen If not for the photographs, I might have a hard time believing they ever existed. The pensive infant with the swipe of dark bangs and the blackbutton eyes of a Raggedy Andy doll.
Apr 24, · Anna Quindlen is a Pulitzer Prize-winning writer whose new memoir, Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake, explores her past, .