Once Upon a Child's Heart

10 Years Later Note: Rereading this after ten years brings back such sweet memories. I’m so glad I now have a class full of littles who don’t mind my singing. I dusted off this version of Puff the Magic Dragon that I created and shared it with them—it was a big hit. Now I just need to learn to play the ukulele, because that would really seal the deal! Thing 3 is now two. He has a love-hate relationship with dragons. He gets scared when he sees them, but still asks me to sing songs about them. His favorite right now is, of course, “Puff the Magic Dragon.” “Sing dragon, Mommy. Back, back,” he says, asking me to sing the Puff song while rubbing his back. I LOVE this. I could do it forever—if my back didn’t get tired, if my other boys didn’t need the same kind of attention, and if the dishes weren’t also calling to me. Actually… forget the dishes. We don’t really need them anyway. When Thing 1 was about four years old, I sang “Puff” to him and he cried. I guess I sang it a little too d...

2026 Note: My dad passed away 12 years ago this month.  My mom passed away just last month.  This story feels more important to me now than ever.  It also reminds me of the picture book "The Hardest Word: A Yom Kippur Story" that I will definitely be busting out to read with my students next year.  The story I share below demonstrates just how hard the words "I'm sorry" can be for some people.  I only remember my dad apologizing to me two times in my life, and they were profound moments for me.  He was a big, strong Marine who rarely saw the need.  But I can tell you, as a parent with 2 adult children and 1 middle schooler, that practicing the art of apologizing has only strengthened my relationship with my kids and modeled this skill to them.  If this is not something you are adept at as a parent, I highly recommend you start practicing. Kristen

A new year is well underway! I am so excited to be in 2014. This year, I want to laugh more with my boys, get fit, write more consistently, and speak about storytelling. These goals sound simple enough—but when I really think about what it will take to follow through, I feel a little terrified. The voices creep in: You can’t write. No one wants to hear what you have to say. You’re not a warm, fuzzy mom. You’re lazy. You don’t have time. Your body is too far gone. Your spelling makes you look incompetent. You aren’t fun or entertaining. Maybe something is wrong with you. It’s the past that haunts me most. As a storyteller, every time someone finds a mistake in my writing, I feel pulled back to childhood—sitting in a classroom, being corrected in front of everyone, feeling small and incapable. I remember thinking my sister was the writer, the funny one, the entertainer. And as a mother, I replay my own shortcomings like a film I can’t turn off. But this is a new year. And in 2014, I am...