We want them to be happy, but we know happiness is elusive, and we remember being their age and struggling to find joy ourselves.
We want them to be safe, but we know a safe life is not likely to be an exciting life, a rewarding life.
We want them to find love, but we know that with love often comes pain.
We want them to find success, but who is to say our definition of the word matches theirs? And shouldn’t their definition take precedence?
We want them to be healthy — we would give all to ensure their good health. And they’re so young; they shouldn’t have to worry about disease. But life can be cruel and unjust, and none of us is given guarantees.
We want to be part of their lives. We want them to want us to be part of their lives. But we have spent their lifetimes trying to make them self-sufficient — personally, intellectually, financially. If we do our jobs right and well, they will go off to thrive as independent beings. As they should. As we want. But we also want to be part of their lives.
We take pride in their growth, their maturity, the wondrous adults they have become. But — and we would never, ever tell them this — we still long for those days when they were small enough to clamber into our laps with a book or special toy, content to sit in our arms for just a few moments.
Every now and then, despite their growth and maturity, we find them just as trying as we did when they were two.
We don’t want to rush them — really there’s no hurry — but at some point, at their discretion of course — of course — we would like them to have children. We hear tales of the joys of grandparenting, and of the incredible love our parents and siblings and peers have for their grandkids. We want to experience that, too. And yes, absolutely, one hundred per cent, there can be no denying, we also want to see them deal with the same sort of shit from their kids that they put us through for all those years.
We remember things we did when we were young — stupid, foolish, reckless things. Things that are not all that different from some of the crap they have done. And we think of our parents with sympathy and with guilt.
We will take calls from them at any hour, no matter the circumstances. We read their texts immediately, always. Because we never know. And the truth is, most of the time those calls and texts make us smile or laugh or kvell (a Yiddish word meaning, essentially, to swell with pride). A good conversation with one of them is often the highlight of our day.
We love to hear about their classes or their jobs, their friends and colleagues, their routines as well as their adventures. It’s not that we live vicariously through them — at least it shouldn’t be — but we want to hear that they are having fun, and we want to share in their joys, as we did when they were young.
We worry about them. How can we not? We have since they day they were born. When we wake in the middle of the night, almost invariably our thoughts go to them. We think of things we ought to have mentioned the last time we spoke, and we wonder if they have followed that piece of advice we offered a week ago, or two, or six. Some nights we lie awake for hours with these thoughts.
We savor their visits. We treasure those moments when our core family is together. We listen to them make each other laugh, and it is the sweetest music.
And we end where we began — with wishes for happiness and love, safety and good health, success and excitement. We want the world for them, even knowing how unrealistic these wishes might be. We’re parents, after all. No one expects us to be rational.
Have a great week.

Graham was incredibly generous, kind, whip-smart, fierce in his devotion to Di and Laura, and one of the funniest people I’ve ever known. He and Di were both school teachers, both utterly devoted to education, to serving their schools and communities. They were active in their unions. They were political. They loved nature, loved good food and good drink. They were, in short, a lot like us. We knew that we wanted to maintain our friendship after our return to the States. And we did. The following summer Graham, Di, and Laura came to the States for their winter holiday (Southern Hemisphere and all that) and stayed with us for several days. Another great visit. We had tons of fun, but Graham and I also spent a good deal of time talking. He had just lost his father, something I went through a decade earlier. I can honestly say that even though we were now living literally half a world apart, our friendship had only deepened.
During our tour, we encountered many people selling pottery in front of their homes. And at one table, a mother displayed her wares beside those of her young daughter. I think the girl must have been around 7 or 8, give or take a year, and she had made a few small bowls, seed pots, and dishes. And she had made a tiny storyteller. As one would expect, it was quite crude compared to those we had seen for sale back in Albuquerque (we hadn’t yet been to Santa Fe or Taos), but something about the figure spoke to me. Maybe is was just that the storyteller was so cute. Or maybe it was that the girl herself was so proud of it. Or maybe I saw in this child’s early effort to follow in her mother’s footsteps something akin to my dream of becoming a professional writer. Whatever the reason, I asked the girl how much it cost.
That was a magical day in many ways. Acoma was as beautiful as we had been told, the pale red stone of the Pueblo seeming to glow beneath a deep azure sky, wooden kiva ladders rising above their structures and reaching toward the clouds. At one point, I spotted a rainbow in the clouds overhead — there was no rain, just the prismatic color, which appeared for a moment and then vanished. I think I was the only one on the tour who saw it. I believed that, together, the rainbow and my little storyteller were omens, signs that my dream would, in fact, come to pass.
Two months later, I got my first contract from Tor Books. Children of Amarid wasn’t published for another three years — that first book needed a lot of editorial work. But I was on my way.
Yesterday would have been my mother’s birthday — her 101st. I’ve written about her, and my dad, quit a bit in this space, though I haven’t written about my mother in a couple of years. She was smart and funny, classy and beautiful, quietly ambitious and deeply accomplished. She doted on her children and was, in turn, doted on by my father. She loved to travel and was passionate to the point of reverence about literature and the arts.
We built our house in 1998. Or, to be more accurate, we paid other people to build our house in 1998. We took a pre-made design that we found in a book of house floor-plans, and with some help from a local architect, customized it to meet our needs. At the time, our older daughter was three and Nancy was pregnant with our younger daughter. We needed a kid-friendly home that would give the girls space to play, and us room to watch them but also cook dinner and such.
The first deadline I missed was on my second novel, The Outlanders, the middle book of the LonTobyn Chronicles trilogy. And I had good excuses. Between the time I started writing the book, and the day the first draft of the manuscript was due to Tor, our first child was born, my mother died, my father died, and my siblings and I had to settle my father’s estate.
Yes, sometimes we think we’re going to miss a deadline, and then we make it. And if we alert our publisher prematurely, we could lose our spot in the queue. So be it. That’s the price of acting professionally. When our older daughter first was diagnosed with cancer, I told my editor and my agent what had happened, and let them know I was probably going to be late with the novel I was writing. As it turned out, writing that book — Invasives, the second Radiants novel — was a wonderful escape, and I met my deadline. But I had given up my publishing spot and so the book was released later than I had hoped. It wasn’t that big a deal. As I say, the most important thing is be up front about the situation with those who need to know.