Every night I sing twinkle twinkle to my kids. If I try to skip even one of the five stanzas my three year old knows and tells me. My son is six months old and the last baby we’ll have. I’m leaning to give in to all the little things, even the things about parenthood that feel annoying. One day the kids will be older and won’t need me as much. I don’t look forward to those days.
Meera, this wasn’t just a newsletter—it was a lullaby for grownups. That moment with F, when she silences you with those tiny hands and says “Stop. The End.”—I’ll be thinking about that all day. The soft power of children, the absurd poetry of sleep deprivation, the sacredness of noticing… you thread it all together so lightly and yet it lands with full gravity.
Your writing reminds me that small things don’t just matter—they often hold the whole meaning. Thank you for folding the corners for us, every week.
This felt like a love letter to the quiet, aching beauty of showing up. The image of F covering your mouth with solemnity and declaring “Stop. The End.” nearly undid me—what a moment of fierce, tiny agency. You hold space for the exhaustion and the magic so beautifully, Meera. These posts always feel like folded page corners for the soul—little flags that say, look here, this part matters.
Every night I sing twinkle twinkle to my kids. If I try to skip even one of the five stanzas my three year old knows and tells me. My son is six months old and the last baby we’ll have. I’m leaning to give in to all the little things, even the things about parenthood that feel annoying. One day the kids will be older and won’t need me as much. I don’t look forward to those days.
Meera, this wasn’t just a newsletter—it was a lullaby for grownups. That moment with F, when she silences you with those tiny hands and says “Stop. The End.”—I’ll be thinking about that all day. The soft power of children, the absurd poetry of sleep deprivation, the sacredness of noticing… you thread it all together so lightly and yet it lands with full gravity.
Your writing reminds me that small things don’t just matter—they often hold the whole meaning. Thank you for folding the corners for us, every week.
This felt like a love letter to the quiet, aching beauty of showing up. The image of F covering your mouth with solemnity and declaring “Stop. The End.” nearly undid me—what a moment of fierce, tiny agency. You hold space for the exhaustion and the magic so beautifully, Meera. These posts always feel like folded page corners for the soul—little flags that say, look here, this part matters.