My children were leading me back to the world of childhood. They demanded new ways of being. Silliness. Cuddles. Repetition. Echoes. Some of it was painful and boring, some of it was magical. Spontaneity and surprise were key attributes of these babies’ employees. They had no time for self-doubt. They were exactly who they wanted to be. They wanted

Do children exist?

If you mean is there a period in our biological and cognitive transformation that we associate with “childhood”? Then sure, yes obviously. But, at risk of profound cliché, I’d say it’s also a construct. Where does childhood stop? Why are we segregated from it? Why can’t we also play, explore, wonder? Not only does the ideal of chi

The impossible delight of having your seventeen-month-old