MSI Press Blog

  In our household, we’ve banned very few things. We’re more likely to adapt, explain, or redirect than to outright prohibit. But one evening, when Doah was about seven or eight years old, a certain black-and-white sitcom earned itself a permanent spot on the “nope” list. It started with a scream. Not the kind of scream that makes you pause and say, “Hmm, that’s odd.” No, this was the full-body, sobbing, clutching-his-stomach, begging-for-the-hospital kind of scream. It was late—only the ER was open. I checked his temperature. Normal. Breathing? Fine. No distended belly, no change in skin tone. But the pain appeaed relentless. After a long stretch of inconsolable wailing, I bundled him up and drove to the emergency room. The ER doctor was kind but puzzled. He found what I had found: nothing remarkable. He ordered an x-ray. Still nothing. “Take him home,” he said gently. “Watch him. Bring him back if anything changes.” We stepped out of the hospital doors, and Doah—my swee...

  Precerpt (excerpt from book prior to publication):  Raising God's Rainbow Makers  (Mahlou)   I once thought of Shane as my most “ordinary” child. He was a late walker, a late talker, and content to observe the world quietly. But when he began reading at 23 months—likely earlier, if I’m honest—I had to revise that assumption. He wasn’t slow. He was simply unfolding on his own timeline. When the fall semester began in 1980, Shane had just turned three. I was deep into my doctoral work at the university, which had a well-regarded lab school with a preschool program. Perfect, I thought. Lizzie was in elementary school, Noelle was thriving in a special needs preschool, and Shane had spent the previous year in a different center alongside her. This setup would be convenient: drop Shane off, climb the hill to my classes, and reunite at day’s end. On his first day, we parked in the graduate student lot and counted the 100 stairs up to the lab school together. Shane knew ...

   Precerpt (excerpt from book prior to publication):  Raising God's Rainbow Makers  (Mahlou) During Shane’s first year, we thought he might be slow. Not in spirit, but in milestones. He didn’t walk. He didn’t talk. And we had what felt like objective reasons to worry. He didn’t walk until he was over two years old—on the very first day he was separated from Noelle, his older sister by one year, at day care. Noelle, paraplegic and waiting for surgery to fit braces, couldn’t walk either. She couldn’t even stand without falling with a thud. But she was fiercely protective of Shane. Every time he tried to pull himself upright, she’d caution him: “No, no, Naney.” And he’d sit back down, scooting on his bottom with hands on ankles, just like her. They looked like little crabs scuttling across the house—synchronized, bonded, beautiful. He didn’t talk, either. His first word came at six months, tumbling out of him as he tumbled down the stairs (a gate failure, a parenting f...

  Precerpt from  Raising God’s Rainbow Makers (Mahlou) Noelle: Charming Ways Every week, I’d drive Noelle to Andi’s house in the Pittsburgh suburbs. It was our sacred little errand—part therapy, part friendship, part “Mom’s Taxi Service.” Noelle, my bright-eyed girl with crayon-blue eyes and leg braces that pointed straight ahead like tiny silver skis, would sit beside me in the passenger seat, chatting about everything from butterflies to Bible verses. One morning, I was running late. The kind of late where you start praying for time to bend like a Marvel movie. I zipped through the neighborhood in my bright orange car (which, let’s be honest, was basically a traffic cone with wheels), and in my rush, I missed a stop sign. The cop didn’t. Siren. Lights. Gulp. I pulled over, already rehearsing my apology and wondering if “I’m a mom on a mission” counted as a legal defense. The officer peered in. Noelle sat beside me, her braces poking forward, her blonde hair wispy as a whispe...