I don’t mind saying, as my readers know, that mothering is difficult work. That raising children is complicated, exhausting, and thankless very much of the time, that children are more complex, and more interesting, than the fragile little darlings that popular ideology makes them out to be. And I don’t feel compelled, in order to prove that I’m not a monster, to always follow those kinds of claims with assurances that I do love my children, as if recognizing that caring for little people and preparing them to be big people isn’t all rainbows and unicorns is some kind of indictment of me as a human being. Having said all that, I’d like to pay tribute today to just a couple of ways in which my children have infused my life and to render concrete an idea that is overused to the point of losing nearly all form and substance: that children can be the light of one’s life....
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Jump by Anna Cervova
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