Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference 2009

8/12/2009 12:19 AM I’m on the plane to the Bread Loaf. I held Oliver tightly when we said goodbye at the Oakland airport. When he got home, he cried for a long time. This is the Oliver who wouldn’t let me eat his food because it would be “wasted” on Mommy. In a way he loves me more passionately than he’ll ever be capable of when he grows older.

The other day I told Qin that my boys love to “torment” me—the one they love the most. They cling to me as if there’s no tomorrow, they order me about like little tyrants (Oliver often said his legs are too sore for him to move a step, so I had to carry him). The net result of this “abuse” is that they attach themselves completely to me and to no other. When they grow up, they’ll remember the Mommy they love beyond all reason and words. They won’t remember what they love about me, the old fragile woman that I become, but that they’re devoted to me, feel home with me, and don’t want to let me go.

Who says children only take? Here is the reward of motherhood.

8/28/2009 12:40 PM What I take away from the Bread Loaf, more than the lectures, readings, critiques, and craft, is the confidence that no matter how hectic my life gets, I am entitled to sit down and write, because someday, people will hear it from the Little Theater, the Blue Parlor, the Laundry Room, or even the mosquito-infested meadow that takes your breath away. Thank you, beautiful people, I’ll remember you.