In a cold rain, my teenager heads out to the barn in search of a saw and a just-right piece of wood, then disappears upstairs with her wood-burning tool. The younger girl spreads between the kitchen table and oven, baking mini-eclairs.
Not so long ago, the girls were toddlers, with me trailing behind, frazzled and tired. While I believed they were so needy as little girls, I was likely wrong, caught up in our society’s crazy ideas of overparenting. Even then, my girls were writing their own stories, learning the ways of the world – beginning with nursing (and more nursing and yet more nursing), with skinned knees and bruised shins, with making friends, once sharing stories about a beloved stuffed Piglet and now trading their own girl secrets.
While I’m in the dining room, in my own writing world, my daughters are writing and rewriting their own lives. Toddlerhood is darling, but this is cool, too.
How do you begin to tell your own story?
Jacqueline Woodson, Another Brooklyn