Let’s face it, the bookstore and library are saturated with children’s books. How do you know what to choose?
For me, if a book has dense paragraphs of prose per picture, I almost always put it back down, no matter how skilled/beautiful/cute the illustrations. My six-year-olds respond better to a decent balance between prose and pictures. They’re more engaged, and these are usually more concisely told stories that utilize language more effectively and, so, are more fun to read.
From my extensive hunt for optimal reading material for my feral kids, I’ve compiled a list of 7 tried-and-true children’s books you will love reading with your child.
Books about feelings
Bear with me here. I am still learning to express my own feelings, let alone teach my kids how to do so. But these reads assist them in understanding the range of and often conflicting emotions they can experience.
Both In My Heart: A Book of Feelings by Jo Witek & Christine Roussey and I’m Happy-Sad Today by Lory Britain & Matthew Rivera feature beautiful, bright colors and accessible discussions about feelings.
Bonus features: I’m Happy-Sad Today has helpful instructions at the end of the book for experiencing this book with your children and fun cut-outs for sensory-sensitive kids in In My Heart.
Books about socializing
Be Kind by Pat Zietlow Miller & Jen Hill combines soft, skillful watercolors and sweet, rhythmic prose in an important story that demonstrates that how you behave toward others, even the smallest gestures, makes a big impact.
Sad books
Sometimes you just need to get up in your feels with a book. Oh wait, that’s me. Sometimes kids need a bittersweet read to prepare them for the bittersweet moments of life. I mean, that is the only way I can justify why our parents allowed The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein to be a seminal book of our childhoods. I’m only half-joking. It’s a classic, it’s beautiful, and it hits like 70% cacao.
Books that encourage
Oh, The Places You’ll Go by Dr. Suess delivers powerful life lessons with all of the fun wordplay and quirky story-telling Suess is known for. It handles ambition, achievement, and the inevitable failures of life.
Books with counting
Stack the Cats by Susan Ghahremani–I mean, you saw the picture, right? And the rest of it is just as freaking adorable.
Wordless books
Some of our favorites have been Journey by Aaron Becker, The Conductor by Laëtitia Devernay, and Wolf in the Snow by Matthew Cordell.
Interestingly enough, I almost added Instructions by Neil Gaiman & Charles Vess even though it has words. I didn’t remember that, because I was looking for books that make you think outside of the box to find the line of the story. And Instructions kind of does that by dropping the reader into a setting/story without context.
I love the questions my kids ask when reading these illustration-only stories. It’s important for them to stretch their story-telling muscles and co-write the story with their interpretation.
A plain good story…
This is my favorite children’s book ever. It is like a warm hug. The colors and illustration are gorgeous, and the story is sweet with the good lived-in feel of a folk tale, like an old favorite sweater. A Mouse Called Julian by this same author is also a great read.
We are always on the hunt for new favorites. What are some of your favorite children’s books?
I have been following Amie McNee, creativity coach and book doula, on Instagram for some time. McNee encourages authors and artists to claim their creator title. The messages she writes to herself and to her followers are designed to systematically restructure our sometimes debilitating inner monologues about being a creator. Even in writing that last sentence, I had originally written “Her little messages”–McNee has taught me this is how doubt, negativity, and fear of others’ perceptions can alter and minimize the self we are striving to be.
I’ve always considered myself as someone who processes life through writing. I don’t get angry at someone and then write them into a novel to then put them through horrible trials. It’s a different kind of processing I undergo when creating art. It’s like I become a sieve, where the sand of any heavy emotion falls to the bottom and all of the bigger stuff like truth rises to the top (wait, do I know how a sieve works?). Though I’ve always instinctively resorted to this act of processing/creating, whenever I have thought of myself as ‘Artist’ or ‘Author’, I would always inwardly cringe, and I certainly never proclaimed myself aloud as such.
Years ago, I started this blog as a home for my creative works, a platform for a writer. I’ve always been more comfortable with calling myself a writer, because it so tidily sits beside reader and doodler. But to call oneself an “Author” is big. It comes with a truckload of connotation and entitled-sounding opinion, but I mentioned in an old post that declaring yourself the self you want to be by living as though you already are, is part of the becoming process. Even now, I feel resistance writing this post, worrying whether it is trite or whether it will resonate with anyone. But I couldn’t honestly share this milestone without talking about about everything I’ve had to fight against to get here.
All this to say, as soon as I changed my online presence descriptors to say “Author”, as soon as I anointed myself with that whole truckload of connotation behind it, that in and of itself didn’t make things happen for me, but it gave me the power to start opening those doors that had been there all along.
Image credit: Cassie Pertiet
Last year, I’d received the acceptance from The Grey Rooms Podcast for my most recently published work, a short horror story “Feud” (click here to listen; my story starts at 19:54). Since then, I have decided to self-publish a novel (more information on that soon!), scheduled a photoshoot for my author photo(!), and have been interviewed (listen to the interview here!) for the first time as an AUTHOR (notice I removed the quotations on that one 😏). I’m not saying that acceptance made those things happen. But my decision to proclaim myself certainly gave me the power to reach out and take what I wanted.
Writing this from the place of the final pass through of edits on upcoming debut release, where I am ripping my hair out, wondering if it’s as close to done as I thought, feels a little fraudulent, but it’s time to fly!
Let’s chat in the comments. Have you ever let yourself fall into this trap of self-denial? How did you anoint yourself?
It has been a long time, my friends.This is due to a combination of things, including a promotion at work, moving, writer’s block (see also: procrastination, see also: fear), and teething twins.
You may have noticed that I did deliver on a couple of my promises from this post regarding my website makeover. My “About” page is finally done! Click here to check it out (more insights into this fangirl than any of you should probably have, but I’m pretty proud). Also, I have separated all of my writing-related posts into their own page. I felt they would be more beneficial to those that would be interested in them that way. Other than that, I am currently working on the second draft of my edgy YA, The Art of Falling. You can read about it on my Work in Progress page. Books that have provided loads of hormone-ridden, end-of-the-world drama, and touching teenage intensity can be seen below :
As things calm down at the new job, and the babies ease into sleep a little more gently, then I can get back to work (writing work, not work work) a little more earnestly. Sometimes I have to remind myself that I don’t always have to be actively writing to still be a writer. Here are the other, equally important, fun things I’ve been up to in the meantime.
My twins, preferring to play with all things that are not their toys, like this rocking ottoman
This lovely lady got her hair did
She doesn’t understand the items on the glass table aren’t just floating in the air
Creating reading nooks…
…and writing crannies–from chaos.
Also, I’m working on a couple of art projects to get my creativity flowing, a painting for my daughters’ room and a gift for my best friend. But I can’t show you pictures of those, because then I’d have to kill ya. 🙂 (That smiley face is a lot more sinister than I’d intended. I’m leaving it.)
What do you have planned for the summer? Is the word of the day productivity or play? Maybe a combination, eh?
I am excited to announce that four poems of mine, collectively titled “The Stages of Grief in Four Parts”, have recently been published in Taft College’s literary journal, A Sharp Piece of Awesome. I was invited to read at the release party Saturday—my first ever reading—and it was awesome!
I am in love with this cover.
A little history on these poems. Each one was written probably a year after the preceding one, the first one written the year my father died, 2011. It was only a couple years ago that I realized they somewhat aligned with the actual stages of grief: numbness, anger, depression, and acceptance. After realizing this, I decided they worked better as a unit and also served the memory of my father better together. That A Sharp Piece of Awesome has taken them as a whole means more than I could ever express. And, that my first reading could be of these poems is an honor I will always carry.
I have, below, a video of me reading the first two poems, “Cycles” and “From Regret”.
There are a number of well-written poems, stories, and vignettes in this collection that I had the joy of hearing at the release party, and I can’t wait to dig in! Currently, I do not think there is anywhere to purchase the journal online, but if it pops up anywhere, I will be sure to post a link.
For now, here are the two poems I read.
Cycles
The stairs leading up to my home
shrink and swell with the seasons that pass,
creaking hesitance at wielding another load.
Father, flickering like a fluorescent about to die,
insisting I undertake the rite of my commencement.
Then gone—toxins corroding his ‘goodbye’.
Promises to take me and my sisters hunting
(he’d always wanted boys)
hanging like banners without wind in the open air.
Studying by lantern light,
sleeping in a cold bath
in his desert town,
he said it was for us:
his dogged pursuit of success
in a powerless house.
I hold his death close now,
like a handful of marbles,
afraid they’ll scatter
like his once cinched
fifty-seven years.
There is nothing left to immortalize
but what’s in me that was once his;
this is it
From Regret
It started with Hep C,
but right before
esophageal varices,
cancer on the already failing liver;
so from regret we are delivered.
No need to announce it
or advertise.
I’ll keep on living
the same old life.
No, I don’t feel bad for
smoking this cigarette
or having this drink.
Ignoring consequence
becomes a skill after so long.
I eat. I drink. I copulate. I sleep.
Do I stop one life to mourn the loss of another?
Do I get a tattoo that says ‘Dad,
R.I.P. one-one-eleven, Happy fucking New Year’?
No. I’d rather celebrate
his triumphs or explore his vices
as I enjoy this beer.
But not remembering the sound of his voice
in irritation or jest,
how he looked,
how he smelled after a shave or a cigarette,
therein lies the fear.
Everyone gets over the labor and delivery part of pregnancy pretty fast, because woah, now you have an actual baby—or two. Pregnancy itself is a terrifying, amazing time, but it culminates in something a woman can never forget and becomes old hat. But the labor and delivery of my twins is still so fresh in my mind, because of the challenge it presented to me, the sense of accomplishment in my struggle, and the reward at the end. It was the best, most exhausting high I’ve ever had. I felt like I could run a marathon. I felt like I could climb Mount Everest when it was over. I also felt like I could sleep for nine months (ironically, now I won’t have an uninterrupted block of sleep for another 18 years ). Okay, enough with the Hallmark clichés.
At the doctor’s office the day before delivery
Here’s a unique beginning to this story: I wasn’t ready for these girls to be born. You always hear about women toward the end of their pregnancy wanting it to be over. ‘I am so done with being pregnant’ or ‘I just want to hold my baby’. But I would have carried them forever if it took that long for them to be ready. And I wasn’t going to feel ready to be a parent until they were my body told me I was. I had a plan, and I felt out to sea anytime it was threatened. Part of that plan was to let my labor start naturally-no induction. Even though I told myself that I needed to be prepared for the unexpected, you can never really prepare for the unexpected, right? Due to some potential medical complications (elevated liver bile levels, my risk throughout the pregnancy for gestational diabetes, and the fact that it was a twin pregnancy), my doctor insisted on induction. And because I had carried them so much farther than twins usually go–39 and a half week gestation — she repeatedly assured me they were ready. My body just needed the extra push to get started, she said. Still, here was my birth plan being thwarted from the outset. So on the morning of September 23rd when I’d checked into the birthing center, I felt nervous and I wanted to (did) cry. I got into my gown that the first (not so nice) nurse directed me to change into, and I laid on the bed to be strapped to all the monitors and machines. I felt horribly vulnerable. Thankfully, my other half was constantly assuring me everything would be okay. Also, the rest of the nurses I saw were nicer.
The first (nice) nurse came in and I started in with my questions. ‘Will I still be able to get up to go to the bathroom?’ ‘Can I walk around while laboring?’ They make it sound like it’s a little inconvenient for them for the patient to go off the monitors. But I was determined to be able to keep that part of my birth plan. So, I unplugged and walked to the bathroom carrying my trail of wires. I knew laying horizontal in a bed was not conducive to an expedient labor, and if there’s one thing you need to do in pregnancy and labor (and now, I’m learning, in parenthood), it is to listen to your body and your instinct. I was terrified of a 12+ hour labor, specifically because I wasn’t planning on receiving any drugs. I’d done some research and decided the pain-reducing drugs weren’t for me. In some cases, they can slow the labor. The doctors then administer Pitocin to speed things back up, which can make your contractions unnaturally painful and intensify the baby’s experience of them in the birth canal. I wanted to avoid all of these factors. So I got my wish to walk around, freely use the bathroom, and even, surprisingly, eat. You’ll be surprised to know that though our bodies probably labor better with the energy stores food provides, many doctors/nurses/hospitals will deny a laboring woman food in the event that they need to use anesthetics to operate. And with a twin pregnancy, the chances of an emergency c-section skyrocket.
So I got my food, which I was really worried about, because I wanted to be in tip-top condition to deliver these babes. But though I had felt starving moments before, I took a bite of my prepackaged croissant turkey sandwich and felt nauseous. About this time, some contractions began. They were the beginnings and weren’t that intense, but apparently my body was getting ready. I also learned that the Braxton Hicks contractions (false labor contractions that don’t hurt) I’d been having the past four months were now considered labor contractions because I was some centimeters dilated. My doctor knew that I wanted to avoid drugs as much as was reasonable, so she planned to come in and break my bag of waters to see if things started moving along on their own. If not, then I’d be put on a Pitocin drip. Thankfully, just breaking Baby A’s water did the trick. My doctor broke it midmorning and said we should expect to have our girls by that evening or the next day. Thinking we had plenty of time, my husband went home to feed our animals, eat, and get some things (like the birth ball I never used). He returned around noon to me having painful contractions.
I thought I had a high pain tolerance. I figured this would be manageable. After all, my mother had three daughters with no drugs and didn’t even scream. Well, I didn’t scream either, but I was making some pretty unearthly sounds. Something between a growl, moan, and whimper. During the contractions, my husband knew enough to step back and away from me, and offer his hand if I reached for it. He also knew to be quiet. This was pretty important for concentrating on blocking the pain out while trying not to fight the contraction that is actually helping push the baby out. When the contractions passed, he came back to me, massaged my neck and shoulders and gave me pep talks about taking deep breaths when I feel the next one coming on. The ten minutes, which turned to five minutes, and finally three minutes between contractions were some of the most exhausting moments of my life (right up there with the first night after the birth and the first two weeks of the girls’ lives).
The pain of the contractions was nothing compared to the final throes in which my body began sending me signals to bear down, but I couldn’t yet due to not being dilated enough. I had to literally fight my entire body from pushing. This is when I started to seriously think I would need some sort of anesthetic. I was denied by the anesthesiologist, however, because I had never been instructed to stop taking Tylenol through my pregnancy, which put me at risk for hemorrhaging. I’m actually so grateful for this oversight on mine and my doctor’s part, because it kept me from pointlessly derailing from my birth plan. I say pointlessly because things moved very quickly after that. I asked for the Fentanyl as an alternative, which is a drug that helps take the edge off the pain. I had a couple more full blown contractions, and then had one or two that felt like they were just the smallest fraction diminished in intensity. And then I was fully dilated and telling them ‘I have to push’.
They got me to the operating room pretty fast. All twin pregnancies are delivered in OR because of the higher risk for a C-section. I was fortunate enough to have the option of a vaginal delivery. Why would someone opt for this over a scheduled, predictable, controlled operation? Faster recovery time, and the rush of hormones and euphoria that accompanies a natural delivery. And that’s exactly what I got. After 5 hours and 15 minutes of labor (yes, I know how unbelievably lucky I am), I had Baby A at 2:53 PM on September 23rd.
After she emerged, I immediately felt some relief from the pressure and fullness I’d felt pretty intensely for the past couple months of my pregnancy . They laid her outrageously long, warm, plum-tinted body on me and she unfolded her limbs and did a push up right on my chest to look me in the eyes. It was surreal to see this actual little human, this baby that had been more of an abstract idea in my head and heart, and here she was, a separate being. Baby B came out, exactly ten minutes later, much the same way, only she peed on my arm, and then did her push up to look me in the eye with her dark, ethereal stare.
Moments after delivery
The rest of the day was a haze of navigating our new roles as parents, sleep-deprivation, all-consuming hunger, and awe-struck reverence at the two lives we’d brought into the world. I wanted to tell this story first as the kick-off entry for my mom of multiples journal because this was more my life-altering experience than anyone else’s. All family and friends remember now is the birth of the babies, but I remember the work and the fear and the exhilaration and the limits to which I pushed my body to bring them here. And I don’t want to forget a single moment of it.
Now that you all know more about me than you probably ever bargained for, I hope you’ll continue to read about my pilgrimage in parenthood (times 2!). And I really hope this helped other pregnant women or mothers of multiples out there that were looking for answers, encouragement in your decisions, or reassurance that you’re not alone in this amazing, scary, life-altering time. Please feel free to share your own birth stories, pregnancy concerns, or questions about labor in the comments. Or, anyone with questions is more than welcome to email me at ashley.davis1020[at]gmail[dot]com , and I’ll be more than happy to answer.
). Okay, enough with the Hallmark clichés.
Ashley B. Davis 
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