I never expected macarons to move me to tears, but parenting really does a number on you. For the past year, I’ve spent every afternoon with my older daughter, a 4.5-year-old who goes by N around here. On Wednesdays we always do the same thing: Go to the coffee shop on the way home from school, run up to the pastry case, fog up the glass with (her) heavy breathing, and choose which flavor of macaron she’s getting. (Usually “fruit cereal.” Ghastly.) Then we sit and gab like old pals about whether people liked her bunny-ears headband, why the music teacher and his student teacher go by Mr. Hamburger and Mr. Hot Dog, and whether Blippi “works” on our TV. (No, and isn’t that just the strangest thing?)
This past Wednesday, N nibbled her macaron to dust and took breakfast orders for friends I was seeing later that night. (Clare and Galen, hope you enjoyed your imaginary scrambled eggs with bacon.) After she had covered every inch of the menu card (which was really just a muffin bag), she explored the “jungle” of house plants in the corner. She went from pot to pot, touching each leaf, talking to them, naming them (“grasshopper leaf,” “bumpy light green leaf,” “brown dot leaf”), and encouraging me to come do the same. I did, and had the usual parental panic about the fleeting nature of childhood. But this time things felt even more finite. I’ve spent every afternoon with N because I’ve been unemployed. But now, somebody made the terrible mistake of offering me a job, and N and I only have two Wednesdays left. Cue the waterworks.
That’s the power of a routine -- something that starts as a way to simplify your life can become its own precious complication when it’s threatened.
“Saturday,” a bright and clear-eyed book by Oge Mora, is about this dynamic, and how the constants in our life can be as meaningful as the one-offs.
The book tells the story of the one day a week Ava and her mom get to spend together. “Because Ava’s mother worked Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, Saturday was the day they cherished.” They hit all their usual spots on Saturday, and try to sprinkle in a little something special to make it memorable.
Mora’s collage illustrations stack paper on paper, lending density to the city that Ava and her mom are moving through. The papercraft is exactingly cut but imprecisely glued, letting the figures pop off the page. Backgrounds still have what seem like brush marks. Old book pages are chopped up and sprinkled throughout this one’s. There’s intentionality in every corner.
Despite Ava and her mom’s best intentions, things don’t go as planned this Saturday. They try and go to the library, but story time is canceled. They go to the hairdresser and get their hair done, but a car splashes them with a puddle and undoes the new ‘dos. They go to the park, but it’s too dang loud. Each time Ava’s mom uses the same refrain to encourage Ava to take a deep breath.
“Don’t worry, Ava,” her mother reassured her. “Today will be special. Today will be splendid. Today is Saturday!”
No matter what, they have the puppet show. Ava’s been looking forward to this for weeks. The inside cover of the book is Ava’s monthly calendar, with every Saturday’s activity penciled in. Ava and her mom have already been to the art museum, gone to the movies, and arranged a tea party. Now, at last, it’s time for the puppet show.
But when they get to the puppet show, the day goes from bad to worse. Ava’s mom forgot the tickets to the show at home, and she can’t forgive herself.
Ava’s mom isn’t just upset that she messed up -- she’s upset that she “ruined Saturday.” The routine is too sacred -- and their time together too infrequent -- to be treated with a lack of care. Yet Ava’s mom feels that’s exactly what she’s done.
This time, though, Ava is the one who does the consoling.
Ava was quiet for a moment. Then she closed her eyes, and -- whew! -- let out a deep breath. “Don’t worry, Mommy,” Ava reassured her. “Today was special. Today was splendid. Saturdays are wonderful because I spend them with you.”
Cue the waterworks.
I read “Saturday” to N one more time tonight, and I asked her if she thinks she has any routines in her life. “Weekends I do fun things with you and mama.” And what about non-weekends? “School days I spend with you.”
What a special, splendid routine. No matter what we do. Or, rather, no matter what we did.
“Saturday” is the rare kids’ picture book that explicitly acknowledges class exists, and can affect how parents spend time with their kids. It’s worth it for that alone. You can buy the book here, and if you do I’ll make a small commission.
Thanks for making this newsletter part of your Saturday routine. If you’re reading this and don’t already subscribe, it’s cheaper than a macaron.
Want to help the newsletter be a part of even more Saturdays? The best way to help is to forward this along to anyone you have a routine with.
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This is so sweet. Staying home with kids can be really hard and also so so special. I’m happy you and N have had these special days. Congrats on the job!
This gave me nostalgia to when N was a baby and she was with you during covid work from home days and you had to eventually break that routine as well. N + J are lucky to have you as their Dad!