You’ll recall that in my summer newsletter I announced that I’d received and accepted an offer of representation from a truly wonderful agent, and we embarked on a beautiful (professional) marriage. She began pitching my first book, The Things That Define Us, to publishers—a process called “being on submission.” We’ve now reached a point where, in her professional opinion, which I trust and value, it's likely dead. Editors have sent really kind and complimentary notes, but ultimately it’s not enough love for them to want to write me a big check (or any check). It’s not a no hope type of situation as there are still some who haven’t responded, but the open window is so small you’d barely notice the breeze and absolutely shouldn’t stake your ability to breathe on it. 

Friend, I had grand plans for this essay. I was, actually, going to write to you about politics. I had the big idea to write to you about citizenship and civic responsibility; discourse intended to understand instead of persuade; and the ways in which we’re collectively failing each other when it comes to trying to solve the big problems of our day. I staggered my way through three drafts and two rounds of review from my non-fiction editor, who reviews these essays for me and somehow always helps me transform what I’ve written into what I actually meant to say.

When I got pregnant with my eldest child I was so excited. So excited: to be pregnant, to be having a baby, that she’d be a daughter when I’d always pictured myself a girl mom. There was plenty to be terrified of (and I was), but mostly I felt prepared and excited to be a parent.

My children are growing up.

I knew they would. If babies stayed babies forever, no one would procreate because everyone would be too exhausted from never sleeping. Every day they get a little bigger, a little older, a little more mature, shedding younger versions of themselves as they do. But the fact of knowing this doesn’t make it any more difficult to slowly lose the little versions of them, their childhood slipping through my fingers like sand.

Happy Valentine’s Day, a day both so revered and reviled that it's impossible to know where anyone falls on it without asking, and if you do ask, then you run the risk of being trapped in a conversation you don’t want or care about. Personally? I think it's dumb to specify one day where you treat the person you love the way you should treat them all year. BUT Valentine’s Day is way more fun with kids in the house. It generally feels like a big party and a good reason to make chocolate cake with heart sprinkles and buy giant, heart shaped balloons.

I’m going to go out on a limb and say that my family’s synagogue has the best rabbi in the world. Literally. I realize there are people who would argue this, but I’ve never seen her speak or had an interaction with her where I didn’t take away some nugget of wisdom. When I started drafting this I had a different idea of what I wanted to say, but Sunday morning as I sat with my eldest at the t'fillah service at our synagogue, I looked around and saw photos of all of the kidnapped Israelis that had been hung on the wall, some with a heart affixed to them right side up, some with a heart upside down. I promise I’m not going to delve into politics or foreign policy or anything like that (not today, at least), so please keep hanging in with me. But let me tell you, sitting there with my arm around my daughter, surrounded by images of people separated from their families, facing unknown, possibly catastrophic circumstances, many of them children themselves…I don’t know that I can even articulate what I felt, but oh boy, did a weight settle in my heart.

I’ve never been popular. Writers—in my case, even years before actually becoming one—can be a little weird. We can be awkward and in our heads—introverted of energy, if not affect. The beginning of the school year was always stressful for me, socially. I made friends, but it never came easily to me. I never felt I fit in with particular “crowds,” even the ones I was technically a member of. Now, back around again to the beginning of school for my girls’, their nerves and anxieties worm their way into my belly; stress by proxy that I wish would eliminate the worry from their own bodies instead of existing in parallel.

Gardens are the epitome of optimism. Although this is technically my May newsletter, I’m writing to you now from late April. The time of the year when I have the urge to plant. To spend way too much money at our local nursery. To sow what I hope will become many many tomatoes (and peppers and berries, oh my!). The promise of growth is exhilarating, and the joy of using my hands to dig and plant and nurture brings a unique sense of pride and satisfaction. I am now, as I write, able to keep an eye on my little garden with its baby plants that will soon bear food my children will pick and eat in the yard. April is joyful and uplifting.