Today in the car, Lu said with alarm, "Uh oh, Mom, we forgot Huggie! Dad can bring him to me on his way to work, although I could take a nap without him and use one of the animals from the nap box instead."
Uh, she uses "although" correctly? She is going to be diagramming sentences soon.
Lu knows how much I dislike the princess thing. Last night, she wanted me to read her a Disney princess book, and she tried to persuade me by explaining, "Well, they aren't princesses, they are just really pretty. With pretty dresses on. And crowns. But look, they have horses, Mom, and I know how much you like horses." I held firm. I really don't like horses all that much either.
LUCY WORE PANTS TO SCHOOL TODAY. And yesterday she wore a skirt. She has agreed to a new fashion rotation: dress, skirt, pants!
At the house before school this morning IN PANTS.
At the park yesterday IN A SKIRT.
Small choice has always been a big part of keeping the peace in our house: it helps Lu feel some power in a world ruled by bumbling adults. But she has further slowed down any morning or nighttime ritual by insisting that all decisions be made via "Eeny Meeny Miney Mo." Which toothpaste to use? My_mother_told_me_to_pick...cinnamon! Which socks? My_mother_told_me_to_pick...blue! (The irony of this being she NEVER does what her mother tells her to do.)
This method has saved us lots of fighting and deliberation. Don't tell voters in swing states.
We had another amazing weekend of sun, sand and friends.
...that sometimes when you're sick you get the blues? Which means you're really sad, so sad you don't feel like doing anything, not even playing.
(Ed note: Lu is not sick, just thinking out loud. And her mother promises to write about Beach Trip '08 later today.)
Please, tell me the story of your life. I mean it. I really want to know. I just spent 30 riveting minutes hearing the life story of one
of my co-workers, someone I am fond of, but don't know terribly well. I know him better now. Hearing his story has made me connected to him. The possibility of such a story in strangers makes me more connected to all of them.
You may say, "Bah, who cares about 'connectedness?' I don't want to hear everyone's life story." But you want to hear some of them, right? It's why you watch reality TV, why you read any piece of literature, why you're reading this now. Next time someone gives you the chance to hear his story in person, take it. Or send him my way.
...that Duck spent the night at school last night but it's OKAY because he was there with Franklin, the classroom turtle? And Franklin stays awake at night because he is noc-turtle and he and Duck played in the classroom and had an adventure.
My dears (Mr. Levy and all the late-night teenaged wait staff),
I know when my husband first called you Saturday at 8:49 p.m. to inquire about "a lost yellow duck blanket that really means a lot to our four-year-old daughter," you looked around while you collected deck chairs and swept up the place. Naturally, you didn't find it. But thanks for looking.
And then, when I called back at 8:56 p.m. to ask about "something that looks more like a dishrag with a duck head attached. Like, you'd be wiping down a table one day and look down and think, dang why does this rag have a duck's head" you looked a little harder. You seemed genuinely sorry when you didn't find it, especially when you could hear my daughter sobbing in the background. Thanks again for looking, and for seeming sorry.
When I showed up at your lakeside burger joint at 9:49 with my flashlight, you rallied. Thank you for turning on the lights and hunting around the parking lot, thank you for digging with me through your trash and dirty laundry. Thank you (especially Georgia) for finding Lucy's sad little dishrag of a Duck.
I will spread the tale of your heroism (and delicious food and cold beer) far and wide.
Sincerely,
Kate D.
The girl can really swim. In El Paso, she was jumping off the diving board and surfacing all on her own, using me or Uncle Adam as a buoy, then swimming to the ladder and getting out by herself. Over and over and over again.
