This spring, I read a blog post about romance novels, which led to another post, which led to another post. The gist of what I read is that more women should give romance a try: It’s written by women, for women, about women, and it’s about what women want. That’s pretty unique in the literary world, and the world in general.
I haven’t read a romance novel since high school, and the few I read then kind of shocked me. I didn’t make the genre part of my repertoire after that. After reading the articles, I felt perhaps I should give this underappreciated area of fiction another try.
One evening not too long ago, we did our twice weekly walk at the riverside bike/hike trail. It’s something we’ve been doing for a couple of months now. Our four Littles are used to it, even if they don’t always enjoy every moment. We’ve cobbled together a combination of scooters and strollers, snacks and water bottles, wet wipes and even a first aid kit. It works for us most days.
Even with all the supplies we bring, that there are always a few places on the walk when someone isn’t happy. Everyone has their moments, but usually, it is Six. He doesn’t like any situation where he isn’t in control, and he knows if he slows way down or refuses to continue, we have no choice but to either wait for him or try to cajole him into some alternative – whether it’s walking a little further, going a little faster, riding in a stroller for a bit, or taking a piggyback ride.
This particular time, he was at it again. We were very near the parking area after an especially long walk – we’d gone further down the trail than we ever had before, and all the kids were tired.
Six was fed up with walking and stopped off on the side of the trail and refused to go any further. If we weren’t in sight of the end of the trail, we would be around the next corner. Two bikers loaded down with gear bore down the path, riding side by side. One of them spoke loudly as he approached us where we walked, a hundred feet or so in front of Six on the trail.
I was working myself up to writing about shame when my three-year-old, Six, came in the house howling. He was covered in dirt, with the epicenter somewhere near his face. I heaved him up over the edge of the kitchen sink, trying to rinse the dirt out of his eyes, but quickly realized a more extreme approach would be called for.
Taking him under my arm in a football hold, I charged into the bathroom and started the water running while Six screamed, begging me not to use the sprayer. But this was a job for the sprayer. A bath just wasn’t going to do it. His scalp was covered in dirt, and it was stuck to his neck and all over his face. Five did it, he claimed angrily.
I soaped him up and came after him with the sprayer, trying to avoid his face. Six is a fan of only one type of bathing – the type that doesn’t involve getting his face or hair wet. I braced myself, and his screaming reached a crescendo.
I started with the brain books. Then, a little while back, I shared my favorite books on sex and marriage. Here are the rest of the sex books I read, along with my thoughts.
Want to see the books without their paper covers?
Recently, I was bra shopping with Two. As we walked up to the display, she exclaimed, “Mom, shopping for bras is so embarrassing!”
“Why?” I asked. “Half the world is made up of women and girls. They all have breasts or will grow breasts as they get bigger. How is that embarrassing?”
Her response was something along the lines of, “Well, when you put it like that…”
I remember being a preteen and teen and how Embarrassing so many things felt. It felt Embarrassing whenever I thought I said or did or wore the wrong thing. It felt Embarrassing just to exist in the same space as my parents, perhaps because I was more aware of my self-absorption when they were around.
