At some point it gets weird to record your children through their bedroom door, but I think I’m in the clear for another year or so.
Mom moment: During Annie’s sick-day-at-work, we left the office once to walk a lap around the Tower in the pretty sunshine. Typically, Annie sneezed as soon as she looked up at the bright sky. Because she was sick, she also ejected two bullet trains of snot. And since I had not had the foresight to bring tissues, I just pinched the whole wad of mucus off her face with my fingers. I smeared them clean on the sidewalk, and dabbled them through the shrubbery to finish the job. I like to think a 19-year-old sophomore witnessed this and learned something about life.
I took Annie to see Annie (1982) today. Her first movie in the movie theater. She did great. Ate an entire small popcorn by herself, down to the kernels. Sat rapt in the seat, elbow-deep in that popcorn bucket, pushing down with her legs while the seat cushion threatened to pop back up. The second half she spent in my lap, and fell asleep once, during the Easy Street song—grown-up stuff. She was attentive and polite through the whole adventure, and saved the questions for the way home.
Why didn’t Annie have a mom and dad?
Why was she all alone?
How do we die?
Oh, girl. You keep me on my toes.
Today Paul ate a whole apple. Core, seeds, stem, and all. Gone.
My indecision over what name to use for lady-parts has led Annie to believe that boys have a penis and girls have a butt.