Articles
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1 week ago |
katherinemartinko.substack.com | Katherine Martinko
For Christmas one year, my brother gave my husband a book called Poems That Make Grown Men Cry. My husband has never shown the least bit of interest in poetry, but I suspect my brother was stumped for a gift and saw this at the bookstore. “Plus, I want to see if the title is true,” he added. My husband dutifully read a few of the poems, but I never saw him moved to tears. Fast forward to last weekend, when I was reorganizing the bookshelves in the living room and came across this book.
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1 week ago |
katherinemartinko.substack.com | Katherine Martinko
Several weeks ago, I spoke to a large group of elementary students in grades 4 to 6. One teacher had asked her class to prepare questions in advance, which were written on pieces of paper and handed to me at the front of the room. I did my best to get through them but ran out of time. I stuffed the rest of the questions into my bag. Back home, I found myself flipping through them—there’s something irresistibly cute about children’s handwriting—and one question jumped out at me.
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2 weeks ago |
katherinemartinko.substack.com | Katherine Martinko
There is a story in Julie Lythcott-Haims’ 2014 book, How to Raise an Adult, that I often think of. She describes a Seattle mother named Catharine Jacobsen, who once called her own mother to complain about being cold and wet while watching her child’s soccer game. Catharine’s mother was unsympathetic. I have no idea why you’re standing out there. You aren’t showing your kids anything.
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2 weeks ago |
katherinemartinko.substack.com | Katherine Martinko
Why do we scroll on our phones so compulsively? I've heard many explanations, from accessibility to abundance to boredom to addictive design, all of which are likely true. But recently, I heard another intriguing explanation. It came from Dr. Anna Lembke, author of Dopamine Nation.
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3 weeks ago |
katherinemartinko.substack.com | Katherine Martinko
I told someone the story about my 10-year-old son riding his bike alone to Walmart, two kilometres from our house. He wanted to buy a Beyblade toy with his own money. I didn’t have time to take him, so he begged to go on his own. He had to cross four lanes of traffic (at a stoplight), navigate a busy parking lot, lock up his bike, find the toy, do the transaction. It seemed to take forever, but finally he came home, far more delighted by his independent outing than by the toy itself.
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