In the final tally I’m not sure who said it more, my daughter or me.
That year from two to three was full of refusals—there was the bedtime no and the cleaning up no; no to taking a bath and no to getting out of the bath; no to getting dressed or undressed. It was the toddler version of Newton’s third law: every action demanded an equal and opposite uh-uh . . .
I love you so, so much.
So much that you would die without me?
Yes. Oh yes.
Mmm. Nose kiss. Eye kiss. Snuggle . . .
Alex is only seven years old, but he has already seen
The Worst Thing In The World, which is:
an abandoned tandem bicycle . . .
Mimi is a girl who walks up on her toes,
bringing laughter and music wherever she goes.
Her buckwheat honey hair holds a good, sturdy braid,
and each day she must wear something pink—any shade . . .
Back in 1949, I lived with my grandparents out in the country on a small farm near Richmond, Virginia. Something serious was going on one day as I entered the kitchen at five thirty in the morning. Grandpa and Grandma were standing at the sink, staring so intently out the kitchen window they didn’t even hear me come in . . .
Where had I gone wrong? In four years as a mother, I thought I’d done a good job. So where had I failed? I pictured myself twenty years hence, cornered by a crime reporter. “I tried my best,” I’d sob. “But he began dealing in stolen property at four, and it was downhill from there . . .”
Mama and Papa’s love was magic! Their first kiss was magic. Their wedding kiss was magic. The kiss that made Mimi was magic.
One snowy morning, Papa and Mama shared a good morning kiss that turned magical. Their hearts and other parts warmed. Pajamas were shed. Heat built. Suddenly . . .
“Mama, Miss Tina is fat,” Rose announced from the backseat of my Nissan Sentra. Panic immediately set in . . .