When my daughters were small, I felt it acutely: my life was no longer my own.
Theologically speaking, of course, it was never my own, but when I was in my twenties and newly married it was easy to believe that maybe it was my own, at least a little. But then came our eldest daughter, sweet-tempered and unaccustomed to the bright, loud world, and with her came the realization that no matter what happened, I would never not be her mother again.
My life was not my own: it had become bound up with hers. My days were, in those early years, oriented around her feedings, naps, and diaper changes. And I loved it—despite feeling little draw toward children before having my own, I was surprised to find that I loved both pregnancy and having a newborn. Yet I was so deep in the sea of sudden motherhood that I didn’t stop often to ponder the waters surrounding me. In fact, I didn’t stop often at all.
Now, the days are different. I have hours during the school days where I do sort of get to plan things my way. I’m no longer hedged in by nursing or nap schedules. And yet—that daughter needs a brace for her sprained thumb, and this daughter needs to get picked up early for driver’s ed. Another will need my help with her homework later, and the other can’t find her ballet tights anywhere. Also, the cats are out of food.
My life still isn’t my own, and there’s a richness and beauty to that.
If I was fully submerged during those early years, I feel tossed about now, never quite sure when I’ll enjoy a stretch of calm waters and when I’ll be sent spinning from school to the doctor’s office to the radiologist to super-quick-dinner-prep-and-consumption to ballet class to gymnastics to home, where I’ll sort of puddle and say, “Whew!”
Until someone sidles up to me sweetly and asks, “Mom, can we talk?”
This is a season of holding the door open; of not committing to too many things even though, as one friend has said, having all your kids in school and no day job seems to ignite a neon sign above you proclaiming, “ASK ME.” As in, ask me to volunteer for/contribute to/organize that thing.
I love this season with my daughters, too: everyone is old enough to do pretty much everything, and for a few more years, at least, we’re all still home together. These years feel swift in more ways than one: they keep me moving from one thing to the next faster than feels comfortable for a meditative homebody like me, and yet they’re also slipping by so quickly.
So, I find that I’m always looking for places to lighten the load—I want to savor these years and to be able to say yes to more of those last-minute “ASK ME” to pitch in and help moments. And here’s where this is going and what it has to do with book reviews: for the past year or so I’ve experimented with posting new reviews both to this blog and to my new Substack, The Setting. And it turns out that Substack is great—I really, really enjoy the format, and I hope you do, too! It feels so hospitable to me, and on the administrative side, it’s a lot easier to get a post published, from start to finish, on Substack than it has been over here on the blog. It also turns out that trying to keep up both the blog and the Substack is trickier than I’d hoped it would be.
So I’ve decided—at last—that the time has come to (alas!) retire this blog.
But what does this mean? This blog will still be here—it hosts almost eleven years’ worth of reviews, so I hope it can still be a library of good books that you can rummage through when looking for those just-right titles. But I won’t be posting any new reviews here—those will be over on Substack. If you’d like to receive those (as well as my occasional essays and other nonsense) directly to your email , you can subscribe for free right here.
This blog has been such a delight to me over the years, and I’m certainly sad to step back from it further. But I do hope you’ll join me on Substack, where the book recommendations still flow freely and the format suits this stage of life more comfortably.
And for those who have been reading for years, I can’t thank you enough. I try to thank you often, but it’s never really enough: thank you.