Jeannine, so much for a 26-year old to carry. When I think back to 26....how buoyant and open and curious I was. But also how unable to be fully true to any one man. This is heroic what you did and gave; your very best in that time and place. And yet, I feel the not enoughness of it. I hope I'm not just projecting my own experience here. It is such a poignant story. Wow. Thank you.
Wow, your essay grabbed me and didn't let go till the final syllable. As I've been considering changing my name to my grandmother's name, Lillian, "Lilli" for some reason I was shocked to see it written here. Oddly, I never once looked up the meaning, which I usually always do. Anyway, I'm off to order your memoir now. Thank you for sharing. xx
All of it is one giant "yes!!!" Some appreciations: "heavy as donkeys" and "tuck my stupid un-washed chin-length hair behind my stupid unwashed ears". How both of these made me smile and how different those smiles were. Also, the whole thing with the twitching lips. poor John's "tell". Thanks always ❤️
Oh, yes, I remember when I decided on donkeys. I don't know quite where it arose from, but it just felt right somehow? And the stupid hair, the stupid ears. Being in my body was almost unbearable at that time. Love to you, Pam.
You reminded me of The Women's Room in a few places with your extreme honesty about intimate details. Such an instance of being able to write in and out of the dark and in and out of the light was great to read today..
"For the next hour, our children fly their plane, crash land it, and start over—a continuous loop. There is nothing else to do. After the crash landing, they have no script.
Thank you so much, Melanie. I like that part a lot. It's funny, because the whole thing about the disasters is of course true, this is memoir. And it created such a natural metaphor, especially Amelia Earhart, where no one knows the end. Thank you again.
Thanks Jeannine. This was my second read of this part of your memoir and there is always more in what you write. Thank you for sharing your craft with us. I think the day I committed to upgrading my subscription to WITD was the post where you wrote about words like scraps of fabric that can be used again in different ways (you put it far more beautifully than that). I grew up in a family where "craft" was a very tangible (and valued) way to spend time. I have a very creative (and possibly eccentric) matriarchal line in my family. But I may be the only one for whom words are my true medium. So to discover that I could have a "word stash" like my family have fabric or wood or wool stashes was, really cool. Thank you :) And to begin to understand that I can craft those words like my Dad may sculpt wood and my sister may create fabric masterpieces, is revelatory. Thank you :)
Reading your essay now for the third time (twice from TPTB), I continue to marvel at your skill in crafting what was undoubtedly a difficult piece to write. Your transparency, your vulnerability, your incredible visceral details create such an impact. I am humbled to be able to learn from your example! Thank you 💛
Revelations so private I think make us all feel a little more human in our foibles. It’s brutal, it’s tender, it’s family, it’s foreboding, it’s survival.
Jeannine, this is so raw, open, and honest. Your words burned through me this morning, and “they have no script—no one does” also hit like a punch to my mid-section. Whooof! Thank you for sharing this today.
..."airborne one moment, wings flattened against the blue of the sky, and nosediving the next, all muscle and downward force, plunging toward unbroken sea or undulating field, toward that single flicker of motion signaling the possibility of survival for another day."
I've been giving pieces close reads lately to find the core of the stories, the ones the author might not even realize are core seeds for some of us readers...the above passage feels like the center of this essay to me. It's exquisite.
I mean, I think as parents, especially as new and often vulnerable parents, it's all we are doing...feeding the hungry mouths, massaging our swollen breasts, trying to survive for one more day.
This was something else. Something I actually wanted to read unlike what a huge chunk of the Substack algorithm sends my way (despite my best efforts to train it).
I read this and felt each moment particularly when you felt “ugly”. Those years with the babies and the sacrifice and the lack of my partners understanding . Honestly , no one was writing like this when I was in the thick of it in the late 90s and 00’s . Thank you!!
Oof. I can read ( live, feel, and breathe ) this powerful powerful piece again today because like the Red Balloon, I know there are more balloons on the way for the writer and that young woman. Your gift and the way you foster and manifest it is formidable, and at the same time, vulnerable and so tender. 🎈🎈🎈🎈❤️❤️❤️.
An excellent and gripping read.
And I can also feel the necessity of mothering. The ancient call of that role. the role. So powerful. much love to you and Jon.
Jeannine, so much for a 26-year old to carry. When I think back to 26....how buoyant and open and curious I was. But also how unable to be fully true to any one man. This is heroic what you did and gave; your very best in that time and place. And yet, I feel the not enoughness of it. I hope I'm not just projecting my own experience here. It is such a poignant story. Wow. Thank you.
Beautiful — I was right there the whole time!
Wow, your essay grabbed me and didn't let go till the final syllable. As I've been considering changing my name to my grandmother's name, Lillian, "Lilli" for some reason I was shocked to see it written here. Oddly, I never once looked up the meaning, which I usually always do. Anyway, I'm off to order your memoir now. Thank you for sharing. xx
Wow, thank you, Deborah!
All of it is one giant "yes!!!" Some appreciations: "heavy as donkeys" and "tuck my stupid un-washed chin-length hair behind my stupid unwashed ears". How both of these made me smile and how different those smiles were. Also, the whole thing with the twitching lips. poor John's "tell". Thanks always ❤️
Oh, yes, I remember when I decided on donkeys. I don't know quite where it arose from, but it just felt right somehow? And the stupid hair, the stupid ears. Being in my body was almost unbearable at that time. Love to you, Pam.
You reminded me of The Women's Room in a few places with your extreme honesty about intimate details. Such an instance of being able to write in and out of the dark and in and out of the light was great to read today..
Thank you, Penni! It was so good to see you in class last night, too.
Thank you. I so enjoyed the whole session!
"For the next hour, our children fly their plane, crash land it, and start over—a continuous loop. There is nothing else to do. After the crash landing, they have no script.
No one does."
Thank you so much, Melanie. I like that part a lot. It's funny, because the whole thing about the disasters is of course true, this is memoir. And it created such a natural metaphor, especially Amelia Earhart, where no one knows the end. Thank you again.
Thanks Jeannine. This was my second read of this part of your memoir and there is always more in what you write. Thank you for sharing your craft with us. I think the day I committed to upgrading my subscription to WITD was the post where you wrote about words like scraps of fabric that can be used again in different ways (you put it far more beautifully than that). I grew up in a family where "craft" was a very tangible (and valued) way to spend time. I have a very creative (and possibly eccentric) matriarchal line in my family. But I may be the only one for whom words are my true medium. So to discover that I could have a "word stash" like my family have fabric or wood or wool stashes was, really cool. Thank you :) And to begin to understand that I can craft those words like my Dad may sculpt wood and my sister may create fabric masterpieces, is revelatory. Thank you :)
Reading your essay now for the third time (twice from TPTB), I continue to marvel at your skill in crafting what was undoubtedly a difficult piece to write. Your transparency, your vulnerability, your incredible visceral details create such an impact. I am humbled to be able to learn from your example! Thank you 💛
Thank you so much, Lisa. You are such a good writing friend.
Talk about push-pull!
Revelations so private I think make us all feel a little more human in our foibles. It’s brutal, it’s tender, it’s family, it’s foreboding, it’s survival.
Thanks, Michelle, so much. I am still pouting a little that you can't come to CAMP!
Jeannine, this is so raw, open, and honest. Your words burned through me this morning, and “they have no script—no one does” also hit like a punch to my mid-section. Whooof! Thank you for sharing this today.
Thank you so much for reading it, and taking time to talk to me about it. It means a lot!
..."airborne one moment, wings flattened against the blue of the sky, and nosediving the next, all muscle and downward force, plunging toward unbroken sea or undulating field, toward that single flicker of motion signaling the possibility of survival for another day."
I've been giving pieces close reads lately to find the core of the stories, the ones the author might not even realize are core seeds for some of us readers...the above passage feels like the center of this essay to me. It's exquisite.
Yes. I remember writing that image, how very very carefully I built it. I can feel it in my body. Thank you for noticing!
I mean, I think as parents, especially as new and often vulnerable parents, it's all we are doing...feeding the hungry mouths, massaging our swollen breasts, trying to survive for one more day.
I love rereading parts of your memoir like this. It's my morning delight today.
Oh my goodness, Dhana. You sure do lift up my heart.
This was something else. Something I actually wanted to read unlike what a huge chunk of the Substack algorithm sends my way (despite my best efforts to train it).
Thanks for sharing your words and your soul.
Oh, my, thank you so so much, Avigayil! That means a lot.
I read this and felt each moment particularly when you felt “ugly”. Those years with the babies and the sacrifice and the lack of my partners understanding . Honestly , no one was writing like this when I was in the thick of it in the late 90s and 00’s . Thank you!!
Same for me, re the no one talking about it, or, at least not in the stuff I was reading. Thank you for taking time to read my work!
Oof. I can read ( live, feel, and breathe ) this powerful powerful piece again today because like the Red Balloon, I know there are more balloons on the way for the writer and that young woman. Your gift and the way you foster and manifest it is formidable, and at the same time, vulnerable and so tender. 🎈🎈🎈🎈❤️❤️❤️.
Thank you friend. xoxoxo
❤️