TRANSCRIPT

I’m Maggie Smith, and this is The Slowdown. 

When I became a parent, I became a lot of other things, too. A nurse, a personal chef, a housekeeper, a laundress, a chauffeur, a special occasion baker, a bicycle repairperson, an organizer, and a sidelines cheerleader. (Home ownership added the roles of lawncare specialist, emergency plumber, general handywoman, and personal banker to that list.) Let’s be real: I’m underqualified for most of these positions. 

Singer and storyteller have been jobs of mine, too—certainly they were daily roles when my kids were younger. So much of parenting small children is providing comfort and routine, and songs and stories are part of that: lullabies for bedtime, or little songs to calm a fussy baby or toddler during a doctor’s appointment or in line at the grocery store. And of course bedtime stories.

I remember my daughter saying, “Tell me a story” each night, and I had no idea what to tell her, other than short, simplified versions of the fairy tales I knew by heart. All of them began “Once upon a time,” and ended “They all lived happily ever after.” 

After she’d heard my CliffsNotes version of Goldilocks and The Little Mermaid and any other story I could recall the basic plot of, she became more demanding: “No, Mommy, make UP a story! A NEW one!” No pressure, right? I would ad lib little fables about birds who were afraid of heights, or squirrels that misplaced their acorns, or caterpillars that were nervous about becoming butterflies. They still began “once upon a time” for the most part, and they ended happily—with a newly brave bird, a better organized squirrel, and a triumphant butterfly. 

What can I say? These are the stories you get when your mom is afraid of heights, constantly losing her car keys, and a little nervous about transitions. 

Today’s poem begins with a beautiful story that the speaker’s father would tell her, and transforms as she becomes the family storyteller. Stories themselves are like seeds in our lives; so much can grow from them. There is so much potential waiting inside. 

Like Apple from Seed
by Molly Johnsen

When nights were still scary, our father used to
tell us about the moon: hooked and hanging 
on a bamboo fishing pole. Held by a man drifting

in a spaceboat, he reeled it in only in daylight.
When story time became my job, I told you the moonman
was slowly consuming his catch: mouth full of cool white

on those nights made only of black, so the moon
came back new and grew like apple from seed,
like me and you and the tree where we now stand.

You’re a head and neck taller than me, and you say
It’s beautiful. But I see that the moon will weigh down
the branch till it cracks then rots away—
or maybe I can climb up

toward where it’s stuck. The rain starts, and we’re here
getting sucked up and swallowed. I have to save it, I say.
And you make of your hands a stirrup.

"Like Apple from Seed” by Molly Johnsen from EVERYTHING ALIVE © 2025 Molly Johnsen. Used by permission of Green Writers Press.