There was a time in my life when I was sure I wasn’t going to have a child. It was a difficult season in my life, and one I walked through quietly as everyone around me celebrated pregnancies, adoptions, and births. I was genuinely happy for everyone around me, but that didn’t change the deep ache inside, or the steady stream of tears I cried. I am thankful for the Lord’s faithfulness, the gift I have in my four boys who seem to be growing up way too fast, and the people who came alongside me during that time even if they didn’t know specifically what I was going through.
We Waited For You perfectly manifested my feelings during that difficult season, and reminded me of so many other dear friends who have or continue to struggle with the season of waiting. Cindy Chupack nailed the desire, pain, and great joy parents endure while they wait on their baby to arrive, and Emily Hamilton did an excellent job illustrating this sweet, touching, beautiful book. We Waited for You is the perfect book for any parent who is going through or who has gone through this difficult season, and is a beautiful read to share with your babies when they finally arrive.
Thank you to Netgalley and Sourcebooks for this ARC read! This beautiful book was released July 23, 2023 for sale, and I absolutely adored reading it!
***This review will contain spoilers. I have not seen the television series, so this review is purely for the novel.***
“Better never means better for everyone. It always means worse, for some.” – Pg. 211
I never paid much attention to banned books growing up. I believed it was a ploy to get teenagers to read more; the idea of banning a book seemed…crude. I’d never heard of burning books until I watched Indiana Jones: The Last Crusade, and when I saw that scene – you know the one – my heart sank. Burning books. Banning books. Ever since I’ve identified it with Nazism, and it’s a notion I cannot shake.
“You’ll have to forgive me. I’m a refugee from the past, and like other refugees I go over the customs and habits of being I’ve left or been forced to leave behind me, and it all seems just as quaint, from here, and I am just as obsessive about it.” – Pg. 227
I picked up A Handmaid’s Tale because my library has a challenge in place: read twelve books out of sixteen given categories in a year. If you succeed, you get some sort of prize – a tote bag, perhaps. I liked the idea of the challenge, and chose A Handmaid’s Tale for their banned book category. Before I begin my review, a few things to note: I gave this four stars on Goodreads. Only favorite books are given five stars, and if I’m being honest, my favorite books are not heavy ones; A Handmaid’s Tale is most definitely a heavy book. I would not hand this book to thirteen year old me, either. I know thirteen year old me, and I know what would upset or trigger her, and there were certainly some of those things in this book. I appreciate this book as an adult largely because my tastes have changed (I no longer only read vampire novels – sorry), and because my views as a wife and mother helped shape my feelings about this book. Lastly, I struggle to understand why this book is banned, and wonder if anyone who actually read it would agree with such banning. It is, in many ways, far tamer than some books I’ve read, and definitely tamer than most television. Now, onto the review.
“I wish this story were different. I wish it were more civilized…I’m sorry there is so much pain in this story.” – Pg. 267
A Handmaid’s Tale is terrifying to me the same way The Stepford Wives novel and original movie was – it played upon a dangerous, not too impossible “What If?” A woman having her freedom, her life, her sanity stripped from her with her children used as bait. A woman who suddenly had everything torn from her, and she doesn’t realize it until it’s too late. Yes, A Handmaid’s Tale scared me, but it also made me chuckle, cringe, and even, at times, feel bored. The boredom was because of Offred’s boredom – the mindlessness of her existence, the waiting, the pure nothingness she was forced to live day after day after day. Atwood describes this in a powerful way because I felt Offred’s boredom, but I was not bored. Atwood’s writing is brilliant, and she balances the Before, the Now, and Offred’s internal dialogue expertly. In her Introduction, Atwood tackles a number of issues and questions folks have with her work, and again, I fail to see how anyone could agree to banning this book if they read this introduction. Atwood creates a believable futuristic dystopia because she pulls from history and her own life events; born right before the Second World War she lived in West Berlin while the Iron Curtain still stood, and insisted on utilizing mankind’s own horrific past to make this dystopia believable: “group executions, sumptuary laws, book burnings, the Lebensborn program of the S.S. and the child-stealing of the Argentinian generals, the history of slavery, the history of American polygamy…the list is long” (pg. XVIII). Atwood makes this world plausible, and perhaps that is the most terrifying part.
As my profile indicates, I am a Christian, so I was curious if this book was what book banners claimed: anti-Christian. It is not. It isn’t even anti-religion. It is a good look at what weaponized, state sanctioned religion can or could be, which is one reason I am so thankful to live in a country where I am free to practice whatever religion I choose. I know not everyone is so lucky. In The Handmaid’s Tale the Republic of Gilead are at war with the Catholics, the Baptists, the Quakers. Many have gone underground; nuns have been given the option to repent, convert, and become Handmaid’s themselves, be sent to the Colonies (a death sentence), or be publicly executed. Jews were given the option to convert or return to Israel, which is later suspected to be a ploy for mass drownings once they’re at sea. Bibles are kept under lock and key (pg. 87). Women are not allowed to read, and if caught doing so, they can lose a hand. Much like slavery, those in power recognized knowledge is power, and literacy is the gateway to that knowledge. An interesting point in the book is when Offred mentions how they were forced to listen to Scripture being read during her “training” period, and she knew things were misquoted or added in. Offred tells the reader, “I knew they made that up, I knew it was wrong, and they left things out, too, but there was no way of checking” (pg. 89). Again – weaponized religion, and their reasoning for keeping the Bible under lock and key. If they can’t access it or read it the public must take you at your word.
I wouldn’t call this book feminist or anti-religion or dangerous. The Republic of Gilead does’t care about religion – they care about control. The Commander does not care about Offred – he cares about breaking all the rules because he thinks he’s above them. The men in this book are not inherently evil, just as the women are not inherently good; they are merely pawns trying to survive, and perhaps achieve something in the process. I really felt like Atwood did a good job of maintaining balance; Moira’s tale depicts this as she shares, “‘I was taken from one safe house to another…they weren’t all Quakers, some of them weren’t even religious. They were just people who didn’t like the way things were going'” (pg. 247).
There’s so much to unpack for this review, too much to say. At times I deeply sympathized with Offred, and at others I wanted to shake her. Why wasn’t she fighting back? Didn’t she feel as angry as I did when they took her baby girl, when they took Janine’s child? I’d be unhinged. Didn’t she care? She said she was a coward, and I believed her. Suicide seemed a better option. How could she not call what they were doing to her rape? How, how, how? I liken myself to be more like Moira – fiery, angry, ready to fight when needed, a lioness of a mother. But even Moira surrendered eventually; perhaps the idea of an unbreakable hero or heroine is too unrealistic. It wasn’t until Offred recalls the Before with their cat I began to truly understand, and her prayers broke me in a way I did not anticipate. Something in her prayers felt familiar; in a time I care not to recall with a fear and desperation I care not to share, I said something similar to God. Offred and I are not the same – not even close – but that prayer resonated with me, and suddenly she seemed stronger and more relatable than before.
I don’t know if I’ll read the sequel, honestly. I really love the ambiguity of Atwood’s ending. In my head, Offred got away, had her baby, and helped overthrow the Republic of Gilead. Her daughter never forgot her, and they were reunited. Perhaps Luke escaped, and was part of the Resistance, fighting every day to save his family. She finds her mother, finds Moira, finds Nick. They live happily ever after. Or at least, happily.
This is, perhaps, my longest book review. If I were still in graduate school I would probably pursue this book as the topic of my thesis: ‘The Ignorance of Book Banning: How A Handmaid’s Tale Reinforces the Need for Sound Theology for All, Not a Few.”
Baseball season is over, school is almost out, and this mama is tired, tired, tired. I wish I’d had this post ready in time for Mother’s Day, but I’m learning to give myself grace. As a dear friend used to say, “I’m a recovering perfectionist.”
Mom School is a sweet, fun book a good friend recommended; his daughters loved it, and my boys enjoyed it, too. They know their mama didn’t go to Mom School (because I’m very open about being an imperfect human who’s still learning), but they loved the idea of moms learning how to pump up a bicycle tire, hook a worm, or multitask while still accomplishing daily tasks. It made me think of all the cool things my own mother did while I was growing up – talents and skills that were uniquely hers. I loved hearing my friends tell me how fun or cool they thought my mom was, and as I grew I appreciated those gifts even more. My friends had pretty great moms, too, with their own special abilities, but let’s be honest – everyone thinks their mama is the best, and I hope my boys will still feel the same when I’m old and gray.
Mom School is a sweetly illustrated book perfect for any day of the week, but I am definitely adding it to the list of books I send to my new mama friends. What did/ does your mom do that makes her the best mom for you?
In 2020, when the world tilted, I saw schools, libraries, churches, neighbors, and families come together to make sure no one was going hungry. Several teacher friends said on the last day of school, before everything shut down, they were racing with colleagues to gather food for children they knew relied largely on what the school provided. They grieved for those students during the shutdown, hoping and praying their needs were being met. We were fortunate to have a school bus came to our neighborhood every day to ensure the children there were not going hungry. It was a blessing my husband and I did not take for granted. Our children didn’t have to worry about milk which was an answered prayer during such a difficult time. I still remember the kindness and compassion the women on that bus showed to everyone who showed up; I never ever saw them turn anyone away empty-handed.
It’s something I will never forget. I don’t want my kids to grow up afraid or anxious, but I do want them to know everyone needs help sometimes. In “Saturday at the Food Pantry,” we meet Molly and her mom, and it’s clear from the beginning they’re having a tough time. Molly’s mom is trying hard to have a positive outlook while working through some deep emotions as she takes care of her daughter. Molly has a lot of questions about going to a food pantry: how does it work? Why do they have to go? Why do some people seem embarrassed to be there? Her questions run the gamut just like the emotions at play in all the characters: shame, kindness, empathy, confusion.
During a very difficult time in my life, my father told me, “Be thankful for the help, and pray for the day you don’t need it.” I have never felt so small, so ashamed, and so thankful all at the same time, and after working with others in similar positions I can tell you Diane O’Neill and Brizida Magro nailed this book. Together, they crafted a beautiful, important, poignant book that shows exactly what it’s like to go without food from both the child and the adult perspective. Molly’s confusion, her mother’s wounded pride, the struggle with recognizing you need help, accepting it, and understanding everyone – everyone – needs help sometimes. The message at the end of the book from Kate Maehr is an additional resource offering further insight into child hunger, food insecurity, and resources available if you or someone you know needs help.
I highly recommend reading “Saturday at the Food Pantry”, and sharing it with someone you love. As parents, I think it’s common for us to want to protect our children from the scary things in this world, but it’s also important to show them there are people who want to help those in need when things get hard or scary. If you need help or know someone who does, please consider reaching out to your local church, looking into WIC, EBT, or SNAP programs, or going to http://www.feedingamerica.org for more information.
I’ve been contemplating this book for awhile now, and how to properly do it justice. How to best describe a book comprised of a poem so thorough and moving, reflecting both the influence of nature and the beauty of close family relationships? How to adequately explain the infectious joy of the little girl on the cover that instantly drew me to this book? I may fall short, y’all, but I will certainly try.
Samara Cole Doyon’s book is a celebration of brown; a rich, multifaceted color oftentimes ignored for its true beauty. As a child, I was often told by my childhood peers my dark hair was not beautiful because it wasn’t a golden blonde. My dark eyes were the color of mud instead of the color of the sea. It took me a long, long time to realize their ignorance, cruelty, and blatantly incorrect statements. My hair is beautiful; it’s the same shade as my mother’s, with hints of auburn and silver. My eyes sparkle when I laugh, and I see them reflected in my oldest son.
But this book isn’t about hair or eyes – not entirely, anyway. As Juanita writes in her dedication, “For every magnificent brown girl. You are marvelous – celebrate yourself every day.”
Her dedication is, in many ways, a beautiful description of what this book is about. African American girls recognizing the beauty and power of “Magnificent Homespun Brown.” Doyon does so beautifully, each page, each section of poetry tying together nature and family, moving from physical attributes to more abstract celebrations: laughter, power, peace.
I deeply appreciate it when author’s include a note to give a bit of additional insight into their work, and Doyson’s note moved me. I look for connection in the books I read to my children and the books I choose for myself. What could be a stronger connection than a mother wanting her children to see their beauty and worth for who they are, freely celebrating it with those they love?
The love, power, and joy in “Magnificent Homespun Brown” is magnetic. Let me know if you have a favorite part; I had several.
In the past two years, I have read three books that focused on cancer. It’s not been intentional – I didn’t seek those stories out specifically, but they have come to me, and in the back of my mind I wonder why.
When I was a little girl, probably in the first or second grade, my mother spent at least a year, maybe more, traveling back and forth to care for her mother. She was younger than I am now, with two little girls, and she spent two weeks with me, and two weeks with my grandmother. During that time I developed major separation anxiety, which we didn’t realize until I was much older. My father did his best, and considering everything he had to deal with, I think he handled it pretty well.
I kept revisiting those memories while I read “Crying in H Mart”. I kept thinking about my mother and my grandmother, a woman I vaguely remember. She’s been kept alive by my mom’s stories and a few solid memories I hold dear. Without meaning to, I paralleled a lot of what Zauner wrote to my mom and my grandmother, wondering just how similar those experiences might have been. I recalled the other books I’d read, their descriptions of chemotherapy treatment, and the pure hell it is for the patient. I saw my grandmother in Zaunerās mom, saw my mother in her, and prayed to God I would never see myself in either of those positions.
“Crying in H Mart” is beautiful, tragic, and deeply, deeply moving; I was constantly fluxing between hunger and sorrow. Zauner’s relationship with food, from comfort to joy to therapeutic, and left me thinking of homemade biscuits, frozen strawberry jelly, fried okra, and even (bless it) canned squeeze cheese. All food I associate with family members deeply loved and long gone.
It left me realizing in a very new sense just how difficult motherhood can be. The relationships we have with our mothers are hard. Even now, as I find myself in the role I think about my future relationships with my boys. Is it different with sons and daughters? Am I massively screwing them up, or am I getting some things right? (Father God, please let me get some things right.)
Towards the end of the book, Zauner wrote something that struck me as truly poignant. She wrote:
She was my champion, she was my archive. She had taken the upmost care to preserve the evidence of my existence and growth, capturing me in images, saving all my documents and possessions. She had all knowledge of my being memorized. The time I was born, my unborn cravings, the first book I read. The formation of every characteristic. Ever ailment and every victory. She observed me with unparalleled interest, inexhaustible devotion.
Now that she was gone, there was no one to ask about these things. The knowledge left unrecorded died with her. What remained were documents and my memories, and now it was up to me to make sense of myself, aided by the signs she left behind. How cyclical and bittersweet for a child to retrace the image of their mother. For a subject to turn back to document their archivist (pg. 223).
Out of everything Zauner wrote, those words hit me the hardest. One day my mother will be gone, and whatever went unshared will die with her, just like it will happen with my boys and I.
I’ve seen a lot of death these past two years. Some of it COVID related, but mostly, I think I’m moving into a stage of life where this is the new normal. My husband and I have discussed it at length, and we do not like it. Too many people we love have passed on, always with the one thought, “We didn’t get enough time.”
“The problem is, you think you have time.” I read that somewhere, and it’s never left me, even though I can’t recall who said it. It’s true – bitterly, frustratingly, haltingly true. I will never have enough time with my mother, my father, my husband, my boys. It will never be enough. Even if I started today, I will never be able to record it all. I will still get angry with them, think unkind things, and regret it deeply when they’re gone. I will still miss the feel of their hand in mine, the way they smell, the sound of their laugh. No matter what I do now it will never be enough, but I hope and pray it’s a long, long time from now.
[Note: I started off intending to review this beautiful book, and instead it turned into a deeply introspective piece. Thanks for hanging with me until the end, and let me know what you thought of “Crying in H Mart”. It’s an amazing read.]
“These Words I Shaped for You” (Written by: Megan Merchant/ Illustrated by: Basak Agaoglu)
“My First Book of Patterns” (Written by: Bobby and June George/ Illustrated by: Boyoun Kim)
As you may notice from past Board Book Saturday posts, someone is learning their numbers in our house. We’ve conquered colors, we’re progressing in shapes, and we’re moving into numbers. “Corduroy’s Numbers” is an adorable little book with sweet illustrations my boys really loved. (They’re fans of the original tale, as well.)
“My First Book of Patterns” is probably my favorite pattern book. My kids were introduced to paisley, harlequin, plaid, floral, and several other patterns in this bright, sturdy book. Honestly, it felt like a pattern book for adults, and I wasn’t complaining. The boys especially loved the ice cream fold out at the end.
“These Words I Shaped For You” surprised me with it’s depth. A lot of times, board books are sweet, but simple. I forget that many of my favorite authors have published their stories in board book form, as well. This is a definite favorite, and one we will be picking up in the future. (Hint: it would make an excellent baby shower gift!)
“These Words I Shaped For You” is about the relationship between mother and child, and is so deeply beautiful it took my breath away. It felt like a hope, a wish, a prayer for your child as you watch them grow; it would pair beautifully with Mindy Gledhill’s song, “Anchor.”
May my love be an anchor for you in this wild, chaotic, beautiful, tumultuous world, my darlings.
I’m not kidding. I think I enjoy reading it more than my boys do. “Your Mama” is a storybook that focuses on the hardworking mamas out there, giving deep, funny or sentimental twists to the “yo mama” jokes. I šš¼ am šš¼ here šš¼ for šš¼ it.
The past two years have been hard for everyone, but I continuously see articles about the difficulty mothers have had. Working and teaching from home, leaving their job to teach their children from home, trying to maintain a level of normal in a crazy new world. “Your Mama” made me feel seen and appreciated in a whole new light. The book focuses on all the things her daughter loves about her: her strength, her sacrifice, her fashion sense, her intelligence, her sense of justice. My boys particularly love the part when I read, “Your mama so forgiving she lets you keep on living.” (They understand the value of that one!)
My favorite illustration!
My favorite page was “Sometimes your mama’s cray cray.” I live in cray cray. I could be the mayor. My hair is almost always in a ponytail, I have to lock the door if I want to go the bathroom without an audience, and I reserve phone calls for nap time. It’s crazy and hectic and hard, but like the book reads, “[I] wouldn’t change a thing.”
Each page is stunning, thanks to the beautiful work of Jacqueline Alcantara. I love the scripts, the tiny details I continue to discover after every read, and the warmth conveyed between mother and daughter.
NoNieqa Ramos has created something really special in “Your Mama.” She’s detailed a very special relationship between a mother and a daughter, focusing only on the good, the joy, the beauty. I am reminded that oftentimes I’m too quick to compare myself to others (even fictional characters), and focus on the “I’m nots” instead of the “I ams.” I wonder, does this fictional mother always feel like she’s acing motherhood? Probably not.
My youngest son will be a year old very soon. I was once told nothing marks time like a child, and it’s absolutely true. Since having children time seems accelerated. How can my baby boy be almost a year old when I just had him?
I see the gray hairs arrive; it seems like more come every day now. I see the crow’s feet on older family members; they’re beginning to resemble the grandparents long past, and it’s not as comforting as I expected.
If I’m honest, time scares me. I love watching my children grow, but I want to keep them little. I want my parents to stay forever forty in my mind, but it’s becoming more and more clear they haven’t been forty in some time. I’m almost forty. When did that happen? How does it go by so quickly when the days sometimes feel like an eternity?
“I’ll Meet You in Your Dreams” has me feeling all these deep, complicated thoughts while a sob rests on my throat. “I will not cry, I will not cry,” I chant over and over to myself. Too many books get to me when I’m reading to my children; it doesn’t surprise them anymore, but this one has me extra emotional. Maybe it has something to do with the past two years, the difficulty and joy that intermingled and surrounded me in ways I still can’t comprehend.
This dazzling book by Jessica Young walks two parents and their children through their life, their relationships evolving as they grow, rooted in love. At the beginning of the book, a mother cuddles her little boy close, and a father rocks his baby girl to sleep. As the pages go on, the children grow older – and so do their parents. The children grow into adults, have children of their own, and miss the parents they once had.
My mother once told me she’ll dream of her mother every now and again. I used to think it was a sweet sentiment. Now it makes me want to cry. Iām not yet ready to dream about my parents.
This beautiful tearjerker is illustrated by Rafael Lopez, the same masterful hands who illustrated “The Day You Begin”, “Dancing Hands” (a personal favorite that will be featured here, as well), and featured in “Sunny Day” (another favorite!). Lopez’s work is always breathtaking, but the emotion he conveys in this book is astounding. I was particularly touched by the picture below. I am my child’s lighthouse, and they are the ships. No matter how far they go, I’ll be there waiting, to offer protection, safety, and love.
“I’ll be a lighthouse and you’ll be a ship. You’ll set your sails and take a trip across the briny sea til you blow home to me.”
Feel like crying today? No? You will after reading “Someday” by Alison McGhee. “Someday” is one of those books you read to your kids, but really, it’s meant for you.
I love those books.
In “Someday”, a mother is talking to her daughter about how she was born, how she’s watched her grow, and what will come. The mother’s narrative details things she dreams for, hopes for, and knows with full certainty will come into her child’s life. This includes tear-jerking pages where her daughter has grown old, and is thinking of her mother who has long passed on.
I connected to this book immediately. I have four little boys, but in all honesty, they are not so little anymore. Two are in school, next year another will join, and my baby boy suddenly isn’t such a baby anymore. They’re growing up, and it’s beautiful and it’s hard. Like the mother in the book, sometimes I’ll watch them sleep. I’ll marvel at how small they look in their big beds, how one day they won’t need me to tuck them in, and maybe they won’t want a bedtime story either. It’s amazing how your heart can pull in two different directions; longing for their baby days and childhood, but so excited to see how they grow, and who they become.
The end might be a bit much for some children, but I read it to mine. We’ve experienced more death this past year and a half than I care to admit, so we openly talk about it. My older two did tear up at the end, which I did not anticipate, but it did open up the opportunity to talk about the circle of life.
I read on McGhee’s Instagram page that she wrote this about her own daughter; it started as a poem, and developed into a book. Reynolds’ work is lovely; I love his use of lines, and I’ve enjoyed his work before in “Ish”, another book I recommend. You may have seen his work in the Judy Moody books, too. Needless to say, I’m going to go reserve everything I can from these two at my local library.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go call my mother.
Read with Muse.on.Paper 