I’m standing in the kitchen, flipping through my planner, when I realize it doesn’t go past June. My husband David and I have just booked a vacation for July. I want to write it down. I toss the deficient planner aside and yell, “I’m going to Staples!”

“I want to go!” my nine-year-old, Autumn, calls, running down the stairs so fast I think she’ll fall flat on her face. She gleams at me expectantly once she reaches the bottom stair.

I take a deep breath; I was hoping to go alone. But arguing about it will be more work than allowing her to come along. “Alright, put some shoes on,” I say. “Maybe you can help me choose one.” A huge smile illuminates her face as she shoves her feet into an old worn pair of black boots.

We arrive at the store and head straight to the planners. I can’t find one I want—something simple yet pretty, with lots of blank space for notes. I rifle through what they have, not noticing that my daughter has walked to the other side of the aisle. She comes up beside me with a sparkly notebook, covered in so many jewels it looks like it’s been bedazzled. “Mama, can you buy this for me? I’ll pay you back.”

“Why do you need that? Don’t we have notebooks at home?” The moment I speak the words out loud, I realize their irony. I have two other planners—at home—that I have deemed “not good enough,” yet here I am, looking for another.

“Well, yeah,” she replies, looking down at the floor, “but I want to write a story.” Her voice is a whisper, as if she’s afraid to even speak it out loud.

Read the rest of the story in the May/June issue of Literary Mama.

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