I’m so pleased to announce I have a new literary agent. I am represented by Beth Miller of Writers House. See? That’s me, above, jumping. Mentally, that is. I don’t jump around in my general life. Have a baby and you’ll find out why. But anyway, that’s all the news I can share right now…
On a Saturday morning, this happened:
I watched my husband start to order the clothes back on, but then he just closed his mouth with a sigh and a smile. We stood there, watching our two-year-old run with gorgeous, giggling abandon through the grass and smothering pangs of longing to do the same thing––to dip back to the days when streaking across the yard would have earned us amused smiles, rather than a visit from the sheriff and a lecture on common decency. Oh, to be free and unselfconscious and joyous. Eventually, the diaper came off too, to be hung amongst the yellow flowers of the forsythia bush (in photo at left) and my daughter transformed into full-fledged wood nymph, complete with trailing flowers and muddy feet and shrieks of pure joy. It was beautiful to observe and a poignant reminder how magical these early days of warmth are. Plants crack through the soil, the ends of branches swell red with tightly curled leaves. It’s all proof that no matter how formidable winter can be, a new season is right around the corner, ready to fill the days with warmth and wake up all the sleeping things.
I didn’t say anything when my nearly two-year-old daughter dipped her cheese pizza in strawberry-banana yogurt and ate it. I stopped myself, and the horrified expression cued up on my face. It really did look disgusting. The yogurt was supposed to be dessert, by the way. The kid must have thought it was okay, because she kept eating the stuff. In the end, her hands coated in yogurt and pizza sauce, and she seemed to think that was okay because she licked her fingers. I just tried not to look too much. You should be thankful I didn’t post a photo of it. This is much more palatable:
But who am I to judge? I treat sugar and salt like their own food groups and drink honey straight out of the bear. But that’s perfectly normal. I once knew an adult person who dipped french fries in ice cream. For realz. I witnessed this act of heresy with my own two eyes. Didn’t say anything, of course.
I’d like to think I’ll always know when to intervene (or not) with my daughter’s choices. I’d like to think I won’t butt in and try to “help” her in life when she needs to work shit out on her own. I probably won’t. I’m not that wise. And I’m way too interested in her. But today, I patted myself on the back for letting the kid eat her nasty lunch without so much as a curled lip. It’s a victory, and I’ll take it. Even the little ones count.
(This post also appeared in my tumblr)