Teach her to name the snail in its shell, the translucence held in her hand.
Teach him to peer through the empty paper towel roll at a pile of stars.
Teach her what a pretzel is made of
Teach her not all bugs are mosquitoes
Teach them they might choose the words of their own self
Teach them to fly a bear to the moon and curl a sloth in a blanket of kitchen towel
Teach them the shape of water splashed on the counter, a slip, a fall, a yell and the forgiveness you must ask, because your fuse is short at the end of the day, and there again is the fully humanness of you brought up short by their hands on your shoulders, a forgiveness offered you cannot fathom.
Teach her how much her ideas are worth in a world that might still forget she can be
astronaut
volcanologist
slayer of dragons
Teach him to believe that he is not alone in a world that might still forget to wait
for him at the edge of the playground and to enter a language still being made
Teach, teach, teach the books say - here is how to raise kids that will listen and speak and how to put a bed on the floor the Montessori way, here is a surefire way to eliminate screens and get them to be peaceful and never yell here is what they will have if you only teach them the way to have it
I have piled up the books that might make me a teacher of these ones whose hearts divided within me, whose blood was once slipped between my veins and theirs, whose breathing I catch my breath upon, a toy stethoscope pressed to their chests as they declare to each other that they all need a shot, a bandaid, and some juice
someday perhaps I will remember to read them
but they are not the books my children write for me
and I only have so much time.