One of my favorite things to do after the kids are in bed at night is to flop down on the sofa in front of the fire and start reading. An hour spent soaking up words, and I feel luxuriously rich and much invigorated.

I’ve read two great books, as of late. It’s rare that I have a succession of lovely reads (usually there’s a dud, or a dry, heavy tome, thrown in the mix to slow me down), so it’s been quite the treat. (And now I’m [re-]reading a third, my mom’s.)

The first hit read was a book called The Dirty Life: On Farming, Food, and Love by Kristin Kimball. The particular copy I read came from Lee, a friend from church. The book is making the rounds—Lee, Marj, me, my husband, Sam, etc). Everyone wants to get their hands on this gem of a book which recounts how city-slicker Kristin met her radical-farmer husband and how they acquired a farm and started their business. It’s a fast read, full of entertaining stories that involve subjects such as blood sausage, used dental floss, and rats (not all in the same tale, though).

Most back-to-the-earth stories that I’ve read (this one, for example) ring hollow, like the authors are living the life just so they have something to write about. Not this one, though. This story is hardcore. There is nothing idealized about their life. Words are not minced. There is blood, poop, and extreme exhaustion, with nary a stab at romanticizing it. (Not like you really could romanticize poop…)

It made me feel downright lazy—’cause I take my dirty life with hefty slice of cheesecake—but it did motivate me to finally make up my seed order.

The second book is the highly-controversial Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother by Amy Chua.

Folks, I loved this book! It’s funny, honest, crazy, challenging, and inspiring. I find it fascinating that this book has raised such an extreme level of ire in so many people. (Just read the reviews on Amazon.) Clearly, it strikes a nerve.

This is what the book says on the cover…

(it’s a confessional, people! the woman eats a lot of crow!), but I’ll not say much more. Read it for yourself, okay?

(Oh yeah. The tiger mother book made me feel lazy, too.)

What books are you reading?

This same time, years previous: corn and wild rice soup with smoked sausage

Usually, it’s the parents who are proud of their kids. Parents get to be proud of all manner of glorious things: that Little Tot stayed seated on his bottom for a whole entire meal, that Bonnie learned to read, that Shy Girl read scripture in front of church, that Duddly made a phone call and said please and thank you, that Joey blew his nose instead of picking it. Et cetera. There’s bigger things, too, like being proud when the kids donate blood, give a speech at graduation, and refrain from snapping off Aunt Ida’s irksome head.

But sometimes kids get to be proud of their parents, too. I’m not talking about the ordinary “respect your elders” deal. I’m talking about the beaming-pride feeling, the feeling where if you were sewed together with needle and thread, the stitches would actually pop.

That’s how I feel about you and your novel. ‘Cause writing a novel is a pretty big deal. You did it, Mom, so you should know.

I’m writing this letter even though I haven’t actually seen the book yet. It’s due to arrive at my doorstep any minute. I’m jittery with excitement and am starting to do the swivel-head thing, swiveling my head to look out the window whenever a car goes by.

It doesn’t seem quite right that I’ll get to see the book before you do, does it? But you said no when I offered to wait to open the package till you’d received yours. I’ll wait to publish this post until it gets here, though—I want to take a picture of it—and I’ll call you right away and give you a play-by-play.

I know you think it’s in bad taste to be publicly prideful of your offsprings’ strong suits, and I have to say I agree. But I think it’s different when a kid gushes over a parent. I didn’t raise you, after all, so your successes are not a direct result of anything I did. Down here, looking up, I can gloat with abandon.

Though I still try to play it cool. The other week when you and Dad came to our place to scout out a property (I can’t wait till you guys move close), you, up to your eyeballs in last minute edits, brought along your computer and stayed focused amidst the general chaos that rocks my home. And when The Baby Nickel came down with some bug, you happily offered to stay home from church to watch him. I told my Sunday school class about my crazy mother, at home hunched over her computer, ignoring all of us. I rolled my eyes and sighed theatrically, but I don’t think I fooled anyone. They could all see I was pleased as punch.

You’ve written other books before, but this is your very first novel. Novels are scary. They’re huge. They can almost eat you alive, but you whipped that little (big) booger into shape, yes you did. (Don’t worry, I won’t let slip how long it took.) You worried that you wouldn’t ever get it done, but it didn’t really stand a chance against you.

“Yeah, right,” I can hear you mutter. (But you’re smiling through your mutterings. I can hear that, too.)

“It’s pure torture,” you liked to moan, as you wallowed sluggishly through each paragraph, each sentence, each syllable, hunched and vacant-eyed. But I could tell (though you’ll probably deny it up one side of today and down the other) that you liked it. You weren’t having fun exactly, but you were doing what you wanted to do. There’s a lot of pleasure to be found in doing something hard—trite, but true, don’t knock it.

For your first (!) novel, you tackled one heck of a topic, too. Salvation, oh good heavens! It’s no small matter, but the issues—craftily paired with rhapsodic accounts of luscious berry pies and jars of home canned garden goodness—offer much food for thought. Of course, seeing as I was raised by you, I’m partial towards your view points. However, I think we might be in the minority. But that’s okay. It’s an invigorating place to be.

I like your website, too. It’s barebones simple (the Balding Brother did a good job on it), but cozy, too, chock-full of your exquisite writing and spiked with provocative ideas. I spent a couple days reading through all the bonus essays you posted. For some of them, I whooped out loud. (I don’t remember you making us memorize “Happy are you when people hate you, reject you . . .” when Dad got fired, but I wouldn’t put it passed you. Did you think that was a witty joke back then? Your way of making a funny during those anxious, angry days?)

And just this morning, I discovered the wonders of StumbleUpon (kind of a dumb thing to do when I’m already frittering away too much time on the internet) and I “liked” your site. An official little page popped up and told me to wait while it verified your site and then a new sign popped, “Yay! You’re the first to discover this site!” Let the fun begin!

Love,
Your Seam-Bustingly Proud Daughter

The book
The website

This same time, years previous: potatoes with roasted garlic vinaigrette

Last night I held a baby. I was at the children’s museum, standing by our Fresh Air Fund table, when a neighbor lady walked in with her four little girls and newborn baby boy. As soon as she ushered them all through the heavy, glass doors, I pounced, oohing and aahing until I forced myself to back down.

I returned to my station and sat down, demurely smoothing my skirt. I picked up some brochures and tried to focus on the task at hand—recruiting host families—but then it occurred to me, maybe my neighbor lady’d like to have someone hold the baby for her? I snaked my way back through the crowds until I found her. I smiled warmly (but not overbearingly, I hoped) and said, “If you want, I’d be glad to hold your baby for you while you walk around. I’m just sitting over there and can easily take him. If you’d rather not, that’s fine, too. But I’d sure love it.“

What I wanted to say was, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE LET ME HOLD YOUR BABY. I NEED TO HOLD HIM. I MUST HOLD HIM. IF YOU SAY NO, I MIGHT DIE. PRETTY-PRETTY PLEASE WITH SUGAR ON TOP?

“Well sure,” she said, handing him over.

I floated back to my seat, hardly believing my good luck, a huge grin pushing my cheeks up so high that my eyes almost squinched completely shut. I waited till I was sitting again before examining the little snoozing bundle. He was perfect. A round head, creamy complexion, dainty, perfectly-formed features, a downy-soft head. I sniffed his top-fuzz—so warm! so milky!—and melted. My whole body relaxed. Intense feelings of complete well-being washed over me. I felt drunk.

I swayed from side to side in my blue plastic chair, patting his little bottom and smiling wildly at anyone who made eye contact with me. I wanted to shift him so his head would rest on my shoulder so that each time I inhaled I could fill my whole respiratory system—my very cells—with whiffs of his baby scent, but they had warned he was a fussy baby, and he was sleeping so peacefully that I didn’t dare.

When the family gathered around me a half hour later, ready to leave the museum, I stared straight ahead, pretending they weren’t there, trying to suck just a few more minutes of baby therapy out of that bundle.

This baby crazy maternal weirdness just shows you how very far out of the baby stage I am. I have never been a baby person. I like them well enough, but generally my rule is, if it ain’t mine, I don’t need it. Or even want it. For the last decade I have been up to my eyeballs in my own babies’ scent. The little ones drained me so thoroughly that I never even had one iota of interest in holding someone else’s baby.

But now. Now I get misty-eyed when I just think of holding a baby.

It’s not like I think about them all the time, ’cause I don’t. And I don’t want to have another one of my own (though the thought has occurred to me). It’s just that when I see a baby—and it must be a newborn; right around the six-month mark, I lose interest—I get a little delirious.

On the other hand, I got a taste of my future—a very baby-less future—this morning, and it was intoxicating in its own right. What happened was this: in less than two hours, we, all six of us, cleaned the house from top to bottom. Every single person pulled his or her weight. We got along together. Parents supervised and kids promptly obeyed. No one argued (except for one minor blooper). We were a well-oiled machine. It was perfectly blissful.

I really like babies. And I also really like not having babies anymore.

This same time, years previous: ice cream cake, lemon tart