I was talking to a friend about being a writer, and she asked me what I like to write.  I rattled off several different things, and she seemed very unimpressed.  Then she told me I should write a book about parenting.

I’ve certainly considered (and written but never edited and published) a book about my children, but I’ve never really thought about writing a book about parenting.  My friend seemed very convinced, however, that that would be the thing for me to do.

In protest I uttered, “I’m not so much a good parent as a desperate one.”

After I paused, I realized all parents are desperate.  We’re desperate to understand why our babies cry and how to make it better.  We’re desperate for sleep.  We’re desperate to keep our kids safe in a dangerous world.  We’re desperate to take an uninterrupted shower.  We’re desperate to ensure enough but not too many co-curricular activities for our children so they will grow into well-adjusted humans (even though as kids we spent our free time playing in the street with the one weird kid who lived who lived a few houses down and we turned out just fine).  We’re desperate for silence.

So, yeah.  Maybe I’ll write a book about parenting.  I’ll have to dedicate it to all of the desperate parents out there who are crazy enough (and creative enough) to see their kids through childhood and beyond.