Checkmate

Our lists hang on the refrigerator door, side by side. Both are slightly crumpled from brushes with tiny shoulders, with my knee when my hands are full—a baby in one arm and a bag of groceries in the other. My list has a watermark down the center, blurring some of the lines on the page. A hazard of its location right under the water filter. My sons’ list is extra worn around the edges from the oils on their hands. 

Both lists are showing their ages. We are several months into 2025, and they have been hanging on the refrigerator door since January first, when my two oldest sons, eight-year-old Henry and six-year-old Wyatt, made a New Year’s resolution of their own. They are members of their school’s chess club, which follows a program where you are rewarded a band every time you master a technique or win a tournament. There’s a yellow band for checkmating. A lime one for skewering. They could wear them like bracelets, but they keep them on the straps of their chess bags. A growing rainbow reflecting their progress. They both committed to getting every band in 2025.

At the same time, I committed to 100 writing rejections this year. My list is a series of blank lines in columns. At the end of the 100 lines for my rejections, I left unnumbered lines for any acceptances that might roll in as well. There are far fewer spaces there, but I think that’s the point. I’m supposed to be aiming for the rejections, unlike in years past, when I’ve tracked only the wins and publications. 

I have filled in some of the blank spaces already. These journal titles hold no significance to Henry and Wyatt, but they read them anyway. They like to monitor my progress, and often request to be the ones to handwrite additions to either column. They celebrate any opportunity to write on my list. It helps take the sting out of rejections that have, in the past, humbled me so deeply I have been unable to pick my pen up again for years at a time.

I don’t understand the phrases on their list, either. It says things like “ladder-mating” and “modified scholar’s mate.” I could never teach them how to do either of those moves. I can barely remember whether the bishop goes next to the knight. But Henry and Wyatt know. They have the pink and green bands to prove it. Their chess bags are black with white writing and a sleeve at the bottom that perfectly fits their oversized, rolled up fabric chessboards. The pieces inside the zipped compartment are slightly oversized as well. We keep the bags hanging by our back door, ready to grab for Thursday chess club meetings after school. They come down frequently, however; the boys play each other, or lay out techniques they’ve read about in our growing chess book collection.

Wyatt is particularly goal-driven. On Thursday mornings, after he finishes his usual breakfast of sourdough toast with Jif peanut butter (and don’t you dare try to sub regular white bread or store-brand PB), he plants himself in front of the refrigerator, planning which band he’ll go after today. Often, at dinner that night, he’ll tell us how, during a match, he moved his pieces according to the technique, raised his hand for a coach, and secured the newest emblem of his growing chess prowess.

We celebrate accordingly.

But there are times when things don’t go according to his plan. And I know when that’s happened from the moment I pull up to school in my white SUV, my youngest two in five-point harness car seats in the middle. Henry, ever unflappable, will climb in, happy to start unwrapping the Starbursts their coaches hand out every week at the end of practice. But Wyatt, competitive and driven by a harsh inner voice, will lumber over with heavy eyes as he struggles to balance his backpack, his lunch box, his chess bag, and his crushing disappointment.

Settled safely in the car, out of view of his coaches and classmates, he bursts into tears. It takes a lot for me not to do the same.

I know exactly how he feels. I, too, have burst into tears at the ping of a rejection landing in my email inbox. There have been times when just one no was enough to derail my ambitions. Just one no used to confirm all of the fears that kept me from writing—that I’m not good enough, that every other writer is better, that I already missed the curve, that I’ll never write anything that matters.

I know the same kinds of thoughts are circulating in Wyatt’s head. That’s more painful to me than any of my own losses. As his mother, I know how talented and smart he is. I know how capable he is. It drives me nuts when he can’t see that about himself. And so, I try to build him back up with my words and my hugs.

“Wyatt,” I say, “Things didn’t go the way you wanted them to today. And that’s so disappointing. And frustrating.”

He nods. Hangs his head. I take his hand—with orange marker streaks and dirt under the fingernails—in my own. 

“It’s ok to be upset about it. You’re trying hard, and trying like that comes with a lot of feelings. I get upset too. I have a whole list of times I’ve been disappointed on our refrigerator! But after I get a rejection, I take a few days, and then try again. Seeing you and your brother try so hard reminds me that I can do it too.”

“Really?” he asks. 

“Really,” I say.

A week later, I find him again in front of our refrigerator, making a battle plan to master the same technique at practice later that day. And when another rejection pings in my inbox, I use my own advice on myself. I take a few days. I let the disappointment linger. And then I set it aside, and start writing again. Because I, too, am talented and smart and capable. And I, too, frequently can’t see that about myself. 

—

We stand in what was once a church, all hints of Jesus removed, 10 trophies in a row where a cross once stood. It’s a humid Saturday morning in April. Rain clouds hover overhead. It’s a perfect day to stay indoors and play chess.

That’s what dozens of kids are gathered here to do. It’s the annual spring tournament for our region. There will be one winner for each grade level. Wyatt feels sure he can beat all the other kindergartners. I admire his confidence, and try to stifle my fear over how he might take it if he loses.

There are 10 kindergartners registered today. It’s a single elimination bracket, with losers jumping into other opportunities to play. It sounds organized, but it’s mostly a mess of sweaty kiddos, spilling juice and piles of Munchkins. Henry looks content with his early loss and doughnut consolation. But Wyatt is, of course, still in it to win it, his eyes glued to the board, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. 

I watch him while I try to make casual conversation with other parents. We all regularly line up to watch our kids put their skills on the line. They do it in sports, in the classroom, and here in this steamy church on a Saturday morning. Kids are constantly asked to put themselves out there to win or lose. And we, as adults, so rarely ask the same of ourselves. Unless, of course, you’re a writer.

Writers face external validation—or lack thereof—every time we hit send on Submittable. We welcome critics and fans every time our latest essays and stories go live online. The pressure can be intense.

During the chess tournament, I refresh my email every few minutes. I have a flash fiction piece on the short list for a dream journal. I’ve submitted there before, and gotten quick rejections. Now, it’s been months of hoping. They could let me know at any minute if I’m in, if I’m finally good enough to grace their pages. I switch over to X where other writers are posting that they got their acceptances. They are off the short list. I scour their bios for more information. They are all poets. Does that mean I still have a chance? Maybe the prose department hasn’t made their final decisions?

My mind races while I continue to offer nods and mm-hmms to the mom next to me. The humidity lifts my hair off my scalp. It turns my cheeks pink. It forces me back into my body, and out of my wandering mind. I remember that I’m here to support my sons. And one of them woke up this morning with hopes and expectations as piqued as mine are right now. I find Wyatt in the crowd. He looks a lot like I do: flushed, furrowed, invested. 

When we leave the tournament, a light rain cools us down, and my son cradles his trophy in his arms. I take his picture, and then bury my phone in my purse. I still don’t know how things will end up with my submission. But I do know the sheer joy my hardworking baby feels right now. So, we celebrate with ice cream, and I put any thoughts about my own wins and losses aside. We both try to be in the moment, because if he’s anything like his writer mother, addicted to the thrill of trying and failing and getting back up again and maybe succeeding, he’ll be back at his chessboard before the sun rises tomorrow, gearing up for another chance at victory.

And I’ll meet him there, early in the morning while the rest of the house sleeps, to work on my latest pieces still coming together on my laptop. 

—

Wyatt recently caught me standing at the refrigerator, pen in hand, nose crumpled in discomfort. 

“What are you doing?” he asked. 

“I have to write another rejection here,” I said. “I guess I’m sort of bummed about it.”

“Why?” he asked. “Isn’t that the point? You’re trying to get lots of rejections.”

“Yeah, that’s the point. But it still doesn’t feel great to try and fail. You know what I mean?”

He offered a knowing smile, made even cuter by his missing front tooth. Then he bolted out the back door to play basketball with his neighbor friend. That’s about as deep as he can get at his age. I want to press him further. To find out what he thinks about failure. How it seems to ride alongside success. I want him to name the feelings. Instead, I let him play in the sunshine. Instead, I hope that my example will speak louder than my words. 

It might be years before I know if any of the lessons we are exploring with our dual lists are sinking in. I may never find out. So much of parenting goes this way. But I remain hopeful that sharing in their goals, and being open about my own, will create a bond between us, and help them find a balance between success and failure. That’s something I’m still working on, even at 35. 

We are in different places, but we are learning and growing together. And I know that my boys will corner their opponent’s king right where they want to, and that I will, eventually, find my byline in a favorite magazine. We will trudge towards these separate goals together, pushing aside the self-doubt that gets in our way. We will mark our lists along the way, charting our progress, side by side.

At the end of this year, our lists will be more worn. Their edges will crumble. They might even tear. But they will remain on our refrigerator, reminding us to keep going, to keep striving. We will add our setbacks and successes in pencil and pen. They will look messy, and that will make sense.