It’s 6 a.m.. I am a human dairy farm. Chillhop is playing softly in the background. Little man is locking eyes with me, ripping absolute ass, with a cheeky little grin. I keep asking if he’s trying to join the horns section.
I tuck him into my arms as he nuzzles into my chest. His little way of saying “Good morning Mama, thank you for keeping me safe and warm all night.”
We roll out of bed and begin to make coffee. While it brews, I set him down for a brief moment to swaddle myself in a warm knit sweater—on an uncharacteristically cold Florida morning.
I pick him back up and his forehead presses to my cheek. Calm, quiet, taking in the steps to make coffee. As if to whisper, “I’m sleepy too Mama.”
With a hot cup of coffee in hand, we go into his nursery for a quiet morning together. I open the door and the first thing I see is a classic poster, by Art Activist Shepard Fairey, that reads “Make Art, Not War.”
An ethos that feels like a battle cry when raising a child in 2025.
To the right are two prints hanging one atop the other. Made by a local artist, yoga instructor, and mother. The one on top is a peace loving Sasquatch that reads, “Be truthful, gentle, and fearless.”
The one below, is a whimsical dove, with an olive branch in her beak. She’s surrounded by lyrics to John Lennon’s Imagine, “You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.”
To the far left of his crib, another Fairey piece hangs, framing the room with values we hope our son will learn to embody as he grows up: “Peace is radical, violence is weak.”
Sometimes, after a change, I pick him up, hold him close, and give him a gallery tour of the art on the walls. His large blue eyes—his daddy’s—taking it all in.
I point out the elements and read their messages aloud—he smiles and stares unwaveringly. Entranced—like he knows without fully knowing.
All in all our mornings are quite peaceful. Which feels like a luxury when the world around us feels unending chaos. They’re earlier than I would like, but the darkness of early dawn offers a stillness in a world, otherwise kinetic, that I choose to savor as a human—much less a mother.
As book lovers, we’ve made it a point to read to him early. Starting with classics: The Rainbow Fish, Where The Wild Things Are, and Goodnight Moon. He’d often lose interest, or fall asleep, quite quickly.
This one is different.
I reach into his bookshelf and grab one I have been eager to share with him.
“A World of Wonder,” by author and activist Valarie Kaur. He places his tiny hand on the cover as I read the title aloud making a valiant effort to palm the book open.
The message deeper than “all you need is love.” Bolder than, “treat others how you want to be treated.” The story invites a way of being for both parent and child—an invitation to wonder.
A story of what life could be if we remember to wonder rather than judge. Get curious rather than critical. Connect rather than isolate.
He sits, 4 months old, in total undivided attention as I read the story aloud.
We come to a part where the child is saddened by the world they wonder about. Coupled with illustrations of an unhoused person with a longing gaze accompanied by their loyal dog. A newspaper cover of an artfully abstract world in flames.
I look down to see he is locked in. His tiny hands laying atop the page.
When the wonder makes us feel enraged at injustice, we can wonder about ourselves. Offering space to the anger, fatigue, and sadness that we might feel when the world around us feels all too real. Once the clouds part, we can return to wonder about how we can do our part.
We close the book together. I stroke his soft little mohawk and kiss his head. He looks up. His eyes lock with mine. Gazing past the bags beneath them, beyond the iris, and into my soul.
His innocence taking me from parent to pupil.
More often than not, I feel totally helpless. Drowning in headlines. Nauseated by the images circulating daily. I fear for the world he will grow up in. Unsure of how to even begin stitching up a country ripped at the seams.
But, then he looks at me—pure as can be—and I realize he does understand what the art in his personal gallery and this story means even if he can’t read.
Love is his baseline.
It’s who he is.
It’s all he knows.
I may not be able to change policy or stop the violence.
I may not be able to change the world.
But, I might be able to shape his.
