By: Monica Gupta,
on 7/13/2016
माँ का दिल, वटसअप और मेरे मन की बात Whatsapp मम्मी और उनका प्यार बात एक दिन पहले की है. जब मेरी थोडी तबियत ठीक नही थी इसलिए मैने बस वटस अप पर बच्चों का मैसेज चैक किया और ये भी देखा कि कब online थे. दोनों बच्चें बाहर ज़ॉब करते हैं एक तसल्ली हो […]
The post माँ का दिल, वटसअप और मेरे मन की बात appeared first on Monica Gupta.
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By: Patrick Girouard,
on 3/4/2016
By: [email protected],
on 9/14/2015
When our little ones begin to show a curiosity for the world around them, this may include exploring nature; its particular features, elements of growth and change, as well as discovering their own individual attributes and the differences in one another. Understanding and appreciating these fascinating aspects can be facilitated through gentle and nurturing guidance, […]
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By: Angela Muse,
on 3/21/2015
Happy World Poetry Day! We’ve been busy working on our latest children’s picture book, Caterpillar Shoes. This story is about a colorful caterpillar named Patches. She’s an energetic caterpillar trying to decide what activities to do. In the end, she doesn’t put any limits on herself and lives her life to the full. This is our twelfth children’s book and we are so excited for it’s release. Stay tuned here to learn about upcoming promotions for this book and others.
Th only limit to a paintbrush and a blank canvas is your imagination.
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By: Hazel Mitchell,
on 5/4/2012
By: Claudette Young,
on 2/28/2012
This entire month of blog challenge, dealing with family, led me to yesterday, today, and tomorrow. Obvious, I know. I knew that at some point I was going to have to speak seriously about my mother, and I knew how difficult that would be for me.
The stories I’ve written this month have taken me to places where emotions have near drop-kicked me on many days. This one will lay me out completely and I know it. I was going to write it yesterday. I just couldn’t force myself to do it. I wasn’t ready yet to drown in all of those feelings that had been swirling for a month, just under the surface where they would swallow me at the slightest provocation.
Let sleeping dogs lie is the old adage that covers this situation, and I’m about to begin poking that big brute that lives below the waves. That being the case, I’ll share a part of my mother that has less sorrow for me.
Mom loved kids and animals better than anything else in the world, family excluded, of course. She was a natural mother, who could sooth any child, tame just about any creature, and generally get along with the world regardless of circumstance.
From the time I was about thirteen or so, old bird cages, boxes, baskets, etc. shared Mom’s kitchen with us. Inside those cages, boxes, baskets, etc. were babies. Some were birds, some baby bunnies, or any number of other wild things. She definitely took after her mother in that regard.
There were orphans that stick strongly in my memory. I came home one day to find baby groundhogs nestled inside an old towel in a cardboard box on a chair beside the stove. They were two of the sweetest little creatures I’d ever seen; all brown and cuddly, rolled up into balls keeping warm against each other. Someone had found them abandoned and had brought them to Mom.
I don’t remember how long she had them before the groundhogs were released, and I don’t know that it matters now. I do know that there were few weeks during spring or summer when orphans didn’t come to our house.
Dad brought her the baby bunnies. He was mowing the yard and didn’t realize that one of the local cottontails had made her warren near the edge of the driveway. The rabbits were tiny things and terrified. Dad knew that the mother would never return to the nest warren after it had been disturbed.
On another occasion, a friend brought her a pair of silver fox babies to tend for a few weeks, until they were weaned. He bred silver foxes and needed a surrogate mother for them for a while. Mom did her thing and they soon went back to their rightful home.
One wet, cold spring day, Mom went mushroom hunting. Keeping her out of the woods during mushroom season was unheard of. Having her come home with a baby Great Horned Owl, though, was different. The wee thing had fallen/or been pushed from its next.
She heard it, found it, and scooped it up. It was in shock; its down feathers were soaked, and it couldn’t stop shiverin
By: Claudette Young,
on 2/16/2012
“Don’t touch that bed” must have rang out many times on that drizzly cold day back when I was so small. Mom always contended that my great-grandmother’s bed was a prized and sacrosanct object to be avoided at all costs.
I have only one memory of that great lady of the South. Mother and I were visiting. Baby brother was still “in arms,” as they said back then. I don’t recall who else was there, other than it was a woman; probably Dad’s mother or one of his sisters. The vague memory I have of our matriarch ebbs away further with each passing year.
Her meticulous home with its furnishings reflected who she was as a person. Her bedroom and the backyard are the clearest images I have of that day.
A tall sea of white bed linens fosters an itch in my palms. The sheets and coverlet look so crisp, so pure. I know that under those bedclothes are feather beds half as thick as I am tall. I can imagine well how soft these must be for sleeping because I sleep on my own, thinner, feather-bed at home. I keep my hands clasped behind my back.
Mom told me to touch nothing, and she’d positioned her Shaker chair to watch me through the bedroom door from the living room.
Narrow, multi-paned windows reach from my waist to near the ceiling, swathed in sheer white nylon curtains with their ruffles and frills; very girly. Stark walls resist the need for ornamentation that clutter rather than emphasizes. Shaker chairs in here, too, sit as if waiting for someone to occupy them while putting on socks and shoes.
In one corner a small round table exhibits a Victrola, its horn pointed toward the front window. At near eye-level for me, I can see the arm resting, waiting for the record to spin and for someone to flip the head and place it on the grooves. The crank hangs, unmoving, tempting.
I reach out to feel its smoothness and hear “Don’t touch!”
Questing hand retreats in a snap of muscle and chagrin. Too dangerous. Everything is too dangerous in this room filled with white.
Outside in the narrow backyard, new spring green is taking hold of everything in view. The back fence keeps chickens and other stock from roaming around the house. A fine mist envelopes me as I explore the cistern area, looking for early blossoms. The trees have begun to bud but remain barren to the eye.
Mom will be upset with me. Sunday shoes, wet grass, Great-grandmother’s clean floors. Not good, not good.
No lecture!
I’m the only one left who can attest to this short episode in my life. Perhaps that’s why I try to hang onto it as hard as I do. Great-grandmother died not too long after that day. My Dad’s mother and my own are both gone as well. Only I remember the day of drizzle, white linens, and a silent Victrola.
0 Comments on Shadowed Memories of Bygone Days as of 1/1/1900
By: Claudette Young,
on 2/16/2012
“Don’t touch that bed” must have rang out many times on that drizzly cold day back when I was so small. Mom always contended that my great-grandmother’s bed was a prized and sacrosanct object to be avoided at all costs.
I have only one memory of that great lady of the South. Mother and I were visiting. Baby brother was still “in arms,” as they said back then. I don’t recall who else was there, other than it was a woman; probably Dad’s mother or one of his sisters. The vague memory I have of our matriarch ebbs away further with each passing year.
Her meticulous home with its furnishings reflected who she was as a person. Her bedroom and the backyard are the clearest images I have of that day.
A tall sea of white bed linens fosters an itch in my palms. The sheets and coverlet look so crisp, so pure. I know that under those bedclothes are feather beds half as thick as I am tall. I can imagine well how soft these must be for sleeping because I sleep on my own, thinner, feather-bed at home. I keep my hands clasped behind my back.
Mom told me to touch nothing, and she’d positioned her Shaker chair to watch me through the bedroom door from the living room.
Narrow, multi-paned windows reach from my waist to near the ceiling, swathed in sheer white nylon curtains with their ruffles and frills; very girly. Stark walls resist the need for ornamentation that clutter rather than emphasizes. Shaker chairs in here, too, sit as if waiting for someone to occupy them while putting on socks and shoes.
In one corner a small round table exhibits a Victrola, its horn pointed toward the front window. At near eye-level for me, I can see the arm resting, waiting for the record to spin and for someone to flip the head and place it on the grooves. The crank hangs, unmoving, tempting.
I reach out to feel its smoothness and hear “Don’t touch!”
Questing hand retreats in a snap of muscle and chagrin. Too dangerous. Everything is too dangerous in this room filled with white.
Outside in the narrow backyard, new spring green is taking hold of everything in view. The back fence keeps chickens and other stock from roaming around the house. A fine mist envelopes me as I explore the cistern area, looking for early blossoms. The trees have begun to bud but remain barren to the eye.
Mom will be upset with me. Sunday shoes, wet grass, Great-grandmother’s clean floors. Not good, not good.
No lecture!
I’m the only one left who can attest to this short episode in my life. Perhaps that’s why I try to hang onto it as hard as I do. Great-grandmother died not too long after that day. My Dad’s mother and my own are both gone as well. Only I remember the day of drizzle, white linens, and a silent Victrola.
2 Comments on Shadowed Memories of Bygone Days, last added: 2/17/2012
By: Stacey,
on 11/29/2011
A couple months ago I started seeing images that had the words “via Pinterest” on my friends’ Facebook news feeds. It took about a week ‘til my curiosity was piqued enough to find out what Pinterest was. Once I found out what it was, I requested an invite. Once I received a Pinterest account, I [...]
By: nicole,
on 9/15/2011
i'm thinking he might be pushing the "boundaries" here. but he's only trying to help...;)
my submission for this week's illustration friday. it is also to be featured in stories for children magazine's november 2011 issue www.storiesforchildrenmagazine.com
i am set to do the winter cover for this magazine as well so i am super excited to start doing some sketches for that. especially since it is my favorite time of year!:)
By: Emily Smith Pearce,
on 5/14/2011
I really enjoyed the museums in Siena in part because they were small enough to manage with children, and not so packed. But the best part was their troves of early Renaissance art. I like the early stuff because it’s not so all-fired perfect like the late Renaissance art. During the early period, artists had figured out a few things about perspective, but they hadn’t yet cracked the whole code.
The art from the early period also seems brighter and more colorful than the later Renaissance. I find myself relating to it because it’s more like what I’d want to create myself. Perfection in artwork doesn’t really interest me that much, probably because I’m living after the invention of photography. So the beautiful but imperfect early Renaissance paintings (as well as pre-Renaissance works) have an almost modern feel to me.
Disclaimer: this isn’t an all that scholarly perspective, so bear that in mind.
St. Bernardino Preaching, by Sano di Pietro (above)—This scene takes place in the same Piazza del Campo from my previous post. I couldn’t find a better image of it, but in real life the colors are much brighter. The building behind St. Bernardino is the color of papaya flesh.
(detail from The Siege of the Castle of Montemassi, by Simone Martini)
The image above is just a tiny bit of a beautiful and famous painting. You can see the artist has made an attempt to show the dimensionality of the castle, but it’s still a bit flat, with an almost cubist feeling. I love it.
Our favorite pieces in the museum were the nursing Madonnas. I had never seen anything like them and was so moved by their tenderness. Whoever thought of Mary breastfeeding Jesus? Evidently plenty of artists have, but I hadn’t. I found the images so intimate, so human. So different from some other Madonnas where she’s looking away from baby Jesus, holding him like she’s not sure whose kid this is but would someone please take him?
Evidently there are a lot of these lactating Madonnas from 14th century Tuscany. According to Wikipedia, they were “something of a visual revolution for the theology of the time, compared to the Queen of Heaven depictions.”
Madonna del latte, Paolo di Giovanni Fei
“During the Council of Trent in the mid-16th century, a decree against nudity was issued, and the use of the Madonna Lactans iconography began to fade away.”
Sigh. At least they didn’t burn them.
The coolest thing about seeing these paintings was how much my small children responded to them. I think the idea of baby Jesus being so like themselves, so like oth
By: Roberta Baird,
on 5/6/2011
A daughter is a mother’s gender partner, her closest ally in the family confederacy, an extension of her self. And mothers are their daughters’ role model, their biological and emotional road map, the arbiter of all their relationships. ~Victoria Secunda
Happy Mother’s Day
By: Maryann Yin,
on 5/6/2011
Minnesota House majority leader Matt Dean has issued a halfhearted apology to fantasy author Neil Gaiman for calling him a “pencil-necked little weasel who stole $45,000 from the state of Minnesota.”
Earlier this week, Dean criticized Minnesota’s House Legacy Funding Division for paying Gaiman to appear at a speaking engagement.
Dean told Minnesota Public Radio: “[My mom] was very angry this morning and always taught me to not be a name caller. And I shouldn’t have done it, and I apologize.” Dean still insisted that the author should have “donated his time” to the patrons of the Stillwater Library.
New Career Opportunities Daily: The best jobs in media.
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By: Laurel Gaylord,
on 2/23/2011
By: Sevensheaven.nl,
on 5/28/2010
Satire about a Belgian mother of 9 children who became pregnant of triplets at the age of 52.
You're invited to sevensheaven.nl for an extended impression.
By: Shari Lyle-Soffe ,
on 5/25/2010
By: Paula Becker,
on 3/30/2010
They go together well, doncha think? Some samples of greeting cards I illustrated for RSVP came in the mail a few weeks ago. The one below is for Mother’s Day (Duh!) I didn’t concept or write these; just did the drawings.
By: Steve Novak,
on 3/12/2010
Here's a little sample chapter from the upcoming book which is released on March 20th.
Hope you enjoy!
Steven
THE PROMISE
The long white hallway on the fourth floor of the Fairchild Medical Center was mostly empty and rather quiet. Occasionally a nurse or a doctor walked by with their head buried in a set of papers on a clipboard, their shoes clicking against the tile floor with every step. It was night, and with visiting hours coming to an end, most everyone, patients and family alike, had either drifted off to sleep or returned home. On an empty bench near the end of the hallway sat ten-year-old Tommy Jarvis. Too short to reach the floor, his legs swung back and forth over the edge of the bench. His hands rested softly on his lap as he twiddled his fingers quietly, trying his hardest to think about anything other than this place. Behind the door to his right are his mother and father.
For almost a year now his mother had become progressively sicker. At first the trips to the doctor were for small things like high fevers or sore throats or pain in her joints. In the last few months, the trips were more frequent. She was admitted to the hospital three weeks ago, and it was here that she remained. Every night like clockwork his father left him and Nicky with Auntie Carol and go to visit her. On the weekends – like today – he would bring them along. Nicky might be too young to really, truly understand every nuance of what was going on, but Tommy believed the young boy understood the basics of the situation. Their mother was sick, and she wasn’t going to get better.
She was dying.
No doubt Nicky couldn’t make total sense out of the concept of death, but he knew that a time would come very soon when he would never see his mother again.
Tommy looked up as the door to his mother’s room opened; his father stepped out with a sleepy-sad Nicky pulled tightly against his chest. He looked in Tommy’s direction. “Hey buddy…how are you feeling?”
Tommy didn’t know quite how to respond. The idea of summing up everything going on in his head seemed like a task more impossible than anything he had encountered in his young life. He saw no point in trying.
Chris Jarvis gently laid the half-awake Nicky down on the bench next to his older brother, softly brushing the hair from the boy’s eyes. When Chris looked down he noticed his hand was shaking. He could feel a torrent of emotions building up inside him, but forced himself to ignore them. He needed to be strong, even if he wanted so very badly to cry and scream, and denounce his faith in God, the universe, and whatever unseen force was putting his family through this. He wanted to yell at the doctors for not doing more, or curse the nurses for their pointless pitying looks, or simply run away and leave all the sadness and the stress behind, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t do any of these things or a number of others. Not in front of his boys, and not now. These were things better left to the nights alone, shrouded in the darkness of his room, spread out across his marital bed with soaking wet eyes. He had to be bigger than that; he had to be better than that, for them – even if it hurt more than he could stand.
After taking a deep breath and wiping away a single tear in the corner of his eye, he knelt down in front of Tommy, gazing into the soft blue eyes of his eldest son. “Hey big man, your mom…your mom wants to see you alone for a minute. Would you like to do that? Are you going to be okay, or do you want your ol’ dad to go with you?”
Tommy noticed the shaking of his father’s hands as well. He spotted the very faint glimmer of wetness, catching the pale glow of the fluorescent lights, in the corner of his eye.
Despite trying so hard, Chris Jarvis could not hide his emotions well.
Tommy wanted badly to see his mother - to hug her and kiss her and hear
By: Rebecca,
on 2/22/2010
Anthony D. Pellegrini is Professor of Educational Psychology at the University of Minnesota. His book, The Role of Play in Human Development, examines the role of different forms of human play in terms of its phylogenetic history, its ontogenetic development, and possible functions, suggesting that human play represents one way in which experience shapes development. In the excerpt below we learn about the importance of imaginary play.
The transition from solitary to social pretend play is a hallmark of the preschool period, reflecting children’s relatively sophisticated social cognitive and linguistic development… because social pretend play involves, by definition, the communication and coordination of abstract meaning between people, the possibility for ambiguity and the subsequent breakdown of social interaction around a pretend theme is relatively high. This state of affairs is why social pretend play has been afforded such an important role in the ontogeny of children’s theory of the mind (e.g., Leslie, 1987). With both social pretend play and theory of mind, children are concerned with others’ intents and beliefs. Also in both theory of mind and social pretend play research, the role of the close adult-child relationship, such as the mother-child relationship, is central to children’s developing ability to understanding others’ intentions…
There is also a very good biological reason for mothers to spend time in joint interaction with their infants and children. Mothers are “motivated” to spend time and energy on their offspring because they represent a major genetic investment. Her offspring contain 50% of her genes, and the mother wants to maximize the survival and reproduction of her offspring, and her genes… Therefore, mothers not only invest in protecting and provisioning their offspring, but also in tutoring them in the skills necessary to maximize the offspring’s survival and reproduction. Mother-child playful interactions are part of this process…
The offspring, too, have an interest in maintaining a close relationship with their mothers, providing their mothers are responsive to their needs. That is, offspring depend on mothers for protection and provisioning, and they try to maximize the resources they extract from their mothers… This dynamic relationship of interdependence is enacted in the mother-child attachment relationship. This relationship is developed in social pretend play and forms an important base of children’s representations of other social relationships. This developmental progression has been documented in a series of studies by Carolee Howes (1992) and her students. According to Howes, children’s social pretend with mothers begins at around 12 to 15 months of age when children take pretend play actions outside their functional context (i.e., decontextualization), such as pretending to drink from an empty cup. In a mother-child interaction context, mothers will structure pretend scenarios to maximize children’s participation…, because the child is now capable of responding to its mother’s pretend initiations, often by watching, complying with, and imitating those acts. To maximize children’s participation, mothers monitor their children’s behavior closely, being particularly vigilant around pretend behavior; they look at children closely and smile after children’s pretend play acts… In this way children learn to recognize preten
Horrah! So it turns out I can be a mother and an artist at the same time. At the expense of some very valuable naps and with the help of my amazing husband, I squeezed in the time to finish a painting for my upcoming "Growing Up" show this fall. I've been wondering how amazing illustrators such as Rachelle Anne Miller, Gina Perry & Heather Castles, manage to take care of a baby while also keeping up with illustrating. While I'm still a far cry away from taking on any client work, I am starting to see such things in my future which absolutely thrills me.
By: Maggie Summers,
on 5/10/2009
Listening to my new Nano, a gift from K. :) Love it and love him, he is such a sweetheart! I loaded my music collection on it, and I am listening to some of my most favorite songs- too many to name. Donna Lewis- that girl can sing like no other, can't she? Also The Unfeeling Kiss- by Garbriel Yared, off the City of Angels soundtrack. A few years ago, I have my vehicle broke into and all my favorite CD's were stolen-these two were among them - and I still want them back! Still miss them, but I am building my music collection up again. Music really brings back great memories where you relive moments in time. Amazing isn't it?
Wishing all Mom's a Happy Mother's Day! Today I happily talked to my sons, my Mom, my Mother 2 :), and friends, then a lovely dinner with K. The end to a perfect day...
By: Ginger Nielson,
on 5/6/2009
By: Karen Cioffi,
on 1/2/2009
It's my pleasure to be hosting the talented and versatile writer/author, Dianne Sagan. A business woman, mother of six children and grandmother to three, Dianne is a busy woman.
Dianne Sagan was raised in Texas and is now a full-time ghostwriter and author. Her credits include 35+ editorials for the Amarillo Globe News, a regional newspaper, in addition to short stories and articles published on the internet. Dianne’s works in progress include a flash fiction book with five other women writers, Women’s Bible studies, a series of suspense novels, and Christian fiction. Dianne is working on a line of ebooks. She is active in her church. Her activities there include teaching Women’s Bible studies, teaching Adult Sunday School, and choir. She served as a volunteer for five years with the Sharing Hope Ministry, a prison ministry to incarcerated women. She has also been a Small Group leader. Besides being a full-time writer, Dianne and her husband Greg own a business consulting firm, Sagan & Associates. She is a partner and seminar facilitator. She loves speaking to writer’s groups and women’s groups. Her background includes working in the private sector, small business, academia, non-profits, adult and youth training, and speaking. A member of Panhandle Professional Writers, she can be contacted through her website – Dianne Sagan, Writer – http://dgsagan.tripod.com.
Dianne is currently working on stories for several anthologies and has a story published in the Tainted Mirror anthology (October 2007). The story, Second Chances, is about her son’s head injury and the aftermath.
Purchasing information for "The Tainted Mirror An Anthology:"
ISBN 13:978-0-9786066-1-9
It can be found on amazon.com and barnes&nobel.com
You can reach Dianne at:
My blog: www.diannesagan.wordpress.com
http://www.authorsden.com/diannesagan
Please, don't forget to come back January 4th, for more with Dianne Sagan.
See you in blog world, Karen
By: Edrian Thomidis,
on 7/30/2008
This is my summer post. If you have kids, summer usually means lots of time spent at the pool or the beach!
I love your sketch- it would fit nicely in my 2 week old's new room! I hope I didn't misunderstand the FB posting about being able to get a free print for "sharing"- if I did, it's still a beautiful picture, and keep up the great work!
I really don't want to put my address out where it's visible to others-I don't know if this comment is a public or private message- would you reply via my email so I can send it to you more privately?
[email protected]
Thanks, either way!
Kelly
If this is truly a gift of a wonderful sketch, please send a copy to:
Judy Beatty
725 Grogan Street
Lavonia, GA 30553
Delightful sketch I would be proud to have in my home!
Truly a delightful sketch...peonies are one of my most favorite flowers!
Please send a copy to:
Judy Beatty
725 Grogan Street
Lavonia, GA 30553
Really like your sketches!
Thanks Judy, will do!
This is beautiful. I love your sketches
Lori Hazelip
10304 tungsten street Bakersfield ca 93311
Thanks Lori! Print coming your way.