Always Revising for Hope

in parenting, in writing, in life these days

Over four years ago, I administered an epipen on my oldest daughter, who at the time had just turned two. It was the first week of Covid lockdowns in NYC—schools were closed, the world had shifted, and making a decision to epi her meant going to the covid-filled ER, the literal last place in the world we wanted to be. I remember a loose mask around her face because there weren’t any, yet, for kids, and so many stretchers of very sick people, and that I brought absolutely nothing but my phone and, inexplicably, my makeup bag. I tried to make her watch Sesame Street and she mostly refused, and I beat myself up for mistakenly feeding her something she was allergic to. I begged the world to rewind, so that the day could be different. But we were stuck in that story—covid, anaphylaxis, ambulances, bad decisions, then better ones, then more bad ones, then finally the comfort of being home, as the twin worries of covid and newly diagnosed food allergies wound their ways around us.

One week ago, I administered an epipen on my youngest daughter, who is about to turn two. It was the same day of the week—a Tuesday—the same time of day—around 1pm, right before naptime, and I laid her down on the same bit of floor in my kitchen, listening to the same robotic epipen voice telling me what to do. Different fire fighters and EMS workers came, and a different ambulance took us to the same ER, where, luckily, worries about Covid were not at the all time high of March 17, 2020.

Epi-ing your child requires an unbelievable amount of energy—there is the adrenaline rush of realizing something has gone wrong, the overwhelm of sorting through options of what to do and trying to assess risk even though you are not a doctor and your child can’t speak complex sentences to actually explain what is happening. There is a series of phone calls, maybe, when it’s unclear how bad the reaction is, the hope that someone else can tell you what to do. Then there is the deep inhale of choosing to administer the epi, an undertaking that honestly feels ridiculous when, again, you are about as far from a medical professional as you could possibly be, having received not one but two fine arts degrees and nothing else. There’s the sudden weird pressure of inviting emergency workers into your home and gathering items you might need for the hospital while holding a screaming child who has just been given a lifesaving shot by a person with degrees in theatre and writing for children.  And then there is the exhaustion and pressure of entertaining your child in the ER for hours of observation. And the calculating of what this means for the day, the week, the rest of your life.

And always, always, there is holding your child and trying to comfort them. An epipen is scary. An ambulance ride is scary. A hospital is scary and then boring. None of it really makes any sense.

And after, there is sorting through the feelings—yours, your kid’s (ambulance she says now, when the thought crosses her mind. Sad. Doctor. Ambulance. Ambulance-- she is not yet two, she is searching for the right words to tell the story of this thing that has happened and it is our job to help her find both the truth and the okayness within it) —and in this case there were my older child’s feelings as well. I missed her last day of art class art show, the day did not go according to plan, Kindergarten ended the following day and we are sad, an essential fact in the family has changed, the story of this week was supposed to be about one thing, and now it is about that thing and another thing, and that revision of the story isn’t sitting quite right with any of us.  

Sometimes, writing is this separate thing we get to do, it uses some other part of our brain, it is a release and an escape and a joy.

But this week, in the shadow of the hospital and the end of Kindergarten and the impossible and unfair way they have collided, writing feels like more of the same. I am revising a book about a princess (aren’t I always, though?) and on top of the feelings and logistics I am holding for my children, I am trying to hold emotions and logistics for Princess Auden, too. I have to remember where she’s at, I have to give her reasons for being in that emotional space, I have to understand and predict and manage her emotional responses, I have to tell the story of how she might move from chaos to understanding, from worry to strength, from climax to resolution. I have to make it feel real, urgent, right.

In some ways, the task feels impossible, after undergoing an upset in our real lives. It is too much to hold, yes—the family’s needs and feelings and my own, about allergies and kids and careers and everything else, which are hopeful and desperate and uncertain and disappointed and excited and determined and distressed. And also the perfect mapping of a character’s emotional arc onto a story. How can I possibly do all of it at once?

When writing for children, the character’s emotional arc has extra weight, has to hold an amount of hope and understanding in it. In my books for middle grade readers (which I could define as anywhere from 8-14 years old, depending on the child and the book) I write about difficult topics, and I want there to be hope and growth, I want the story to make sense. Not just in the big picture way—one thing leads to another, there is coherence (honestly a feat for any writer-parent) but also in what it offers them. I want them to turn the pages with excitement and interest, yes, but also I want them to feel okay at the end. Ambulance. Cracker. Sad. Shot. Doctor. Ambulance, my almost two year old says, and I have to add in the rest for her, so she doesn’t forget. Mama was there. Mama sat in the ambulance. We held hands. You felt better. We came home.

She stares at me, while I try to write the story that is true and also okay, that is painful and also hopeful. Mama. Hold Hands, she says, over and over, recognizing that to be as big, as loud, as the ambulance. The cracker. The shot. The sad.

Mama. Hold hands. She says, nodding, recognizing it to be the truth, too.  

If I can write a resolution to her story that makes sense to her, surely I can do it in my work, too. Mama. Hold hands, I think, remembering that hope can be small, endings can be simple, truths can be shrunk down to the size of one hand reaching for another, a mom leaning uncomfortably forward so that they can reach the outstretched palm of a little girl strapped to a stretcher. Sometimes, I remember-- both as a parent and a person revising a novel about princesses and dragons and mothers and adolescence—truth and hope can be just that small. Sometimes, I remember—both as a parent and a writer and a person in the world today—they have to be.  

Notes on Food Allergies: Food allergies are scary BUT epipens (in the case of many people, AuviQs) are magical, life saving devices that are incredibly simple to use and do not have downsides. If you think a person of any age might need an epipen/AuviQ administered, do it.

Anaphylaxis is any TWO SYSTEM reaction to an allergen. (ie: stomach issues AND a rash. A person does not need to be literally struggling to breathe for it to be anaphylaxis. If you feel a two system reaction is happening, use an epipen and call 911. If there is no epipen available (there might be!! I always have multiple on me, and would happily use on another person if I needed to) just call 911. If the reaction involves swelling lips or throat, use and epipen and call 911.

Food allergies can develop or worsen at any age, so if a child is complaining after eating something, listen.

Even if your family is not dealing with food allergies, you will certainly know people who are. Talking about food allergies with young children is a great way to foster empathy and understanding, and to encourage food safety. There are books out there, although I don’t love any enough to fully recommend them in this space. (yes, I want to write about them, yes I am churning through ideas, yes I am sure they will not reflect everyone’s experiences and there will still not be a perfect allergy book for everyone).

If you are dealing with allergies and are unfamiliar with AuviQs, check them out. They speak to the person administering the shot, telling them exactly what to do, and I find using them pretty fool-proof.

If you have any questions about food allergies, or would like to be trained on an epipen/AuviQ— ask! Ask me, or anyone else in your life. The world is safest if more people are educated.

NEWS:

Things are quiet here, as I revise a MG and a chapter book series, brainstorm a verse novel, and send hope into the world about a project on submission. But I hope you all continue to check out the books of mine that have released over this past year— my debut picture book and a my mythology inspired MG. If you’ve read them and liked them, consider leaving a review at any bookselling site!

I have a new website if you feel like perusing that! Beautifully designed by Biondo Studios.

Recommendations:

This podcast was absolutely riveting and at times shocking and truly phenomenal. I want more content like this that centers the lives of teen girls from diverse backgrounds and with a wide array of beliefs and world-views and experiences.

A great band covering a perfect song, every time this one pops up on my playlists I stop everything and turn the volume all the way up. The harmonies! The vibe! The way this song is just actually the best song ever????

If you know me IRL you know pants are not my friends, unless you count leggings, which you should, because leggings are pants, I’ll be taking no further questions. However, there is exactly one non-legging pant I currently approve of, and a good friend recommended it and she was correct. My understanding is that these look good on literally everyone, but if you are very short and hate pants, I can say they will definitely look good on you and you will not need to hem them.