I hope you all adore Catherine Newman as much as I do. I came across Catherine's (I feel like I can refer to her on a first-name basis since she once commented on my blog) first book, Waiting for Birdy, almost by accident when I was on maternity leave with the twins. Her funny, neurotically optimistic take on life with baby and big kid helped get me through that first summer with two newborns and a disaffected four-year-old. I know "neurotically optimistic" sounds like an oxymoron, but that's how the book stuck me—she was equal measures terrified that something terrible would happen to her children and certain everything would turn out all right.
I've been a follower of her blog and her various other writings ever since. I love that she's funny without descending into snark or that grating, self-deprecating tone that lots of writing about parenting succumbed to during the mommy blog heyday a few years ago (you know, that "I am the suckiest mom ever" or "being a mom is the suckiest thing ever," vibe). I love that her writing is touching without being saccharine (I don't think she's ever used "treasure" as a verb). I love that she's not afraid to admit that she genuinely likes her kids. And I love that she can write a moving, meaningful, humorous essay about pretty much anything—or, practically, nothing (e.g., doorknobs).
|Speaking of childhood's messy years, this is only a slightly staged picture of one child's bed; I just moved the items he actually sleeps with a little closer together so they'd fit in the frame.|