Dedication Page

When the advance copy of my book landed on the front porch, it came in a thick, cardboard envelope that I had to cut into with a bread knife because I couldn't find any scissors. Then I stood there at the kitchen counter with the book in my hands and was happy for how it looked—the round white bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios and those slim, red chopsticks.

The boys ran into the kitchen from playing basketball in the basement. There's a low, metal hoop down there and they lunge towards it and do smash dunks over and over after school. So the boys were sweaty and thirsty but before I got them anything to drink, I held out the book to them. "Look," I said. "It's here."

And they stopped asking for orange juice and came towards me and hovered. We paged through it quickly together, and I guided us to the acknowledgements page. I wanted them to see their names printed there and for them to understand how much of the book was really about them. And about my fascination with the way their minds work. And about my fierce love.

I pointed to the part near the bottom of the page that says I wrote the book for both my boys—for "Thorne and his brother Aidan," is what the words say. They also say something more about how I hope I'll always be around to tell the boys how much. 

I'm often asking the boys if they know "how much." We don't say the love part in this code language. We just say "how much" which implies the rest. But Aidan leaned into my right arm and read the acknowledgements and then he said, "Mommy, you have to take that love stuff out. People can't read that. People can't read about how much you love us."

And that's when Thorne said out of nowhere, "Did you write this whole book about your breast cancer? Is that what this book is about?"

"I didn't write a whole book about my breast cancer. I wrote about you and Aidan and Daddy and China."

"Well can you take that out too?" Thorne asked. "Can you take out the how much you love us part, and the breast cancer part. Because people might see this. People might read this."

Then he flipped back to the beginning and the dedication page. It reads, "To Tony and Aidan and Thorne." I love this page. I love the economy and the restraint. I didn't say, "To Tony and Aidan and Thorne with love." I didn't say, "To my beloveds Tony and Aidan and Thorne." I only used seven words. Seven words for the entire constellation of my little family.

But Aidan was concerned now. Gone was his need for anonymity. Now he wanted credit where it was due. He said, "You should have written 'to your sons, Aidan and Thorne' Mommy. Because people won't know who we are. How will they know? You should have written, "sons."

"They'll know," I said and smiled at the boys and closed the book. "Anyone who reads this book will know who you are."

"They'll know we are your sons?" Thorne asked now.

"Absolutely," I said. Then Thorne pulled open the fridge door and got out the juice, Aidan reached for two glasses, and I stashed my book in the stack of cookbooks by the blender. Time for afterschool snack.