Off to the land of scotch and golf and diamonds for the holiday with la familia. Little internet, no blogging, secret writing in the night, curled up on the narrow bed with a flashlight. Everything really does come full circle, and it does it over and over again.
I am currently using a notebook I found in a drugstore bin for .50, covered with pictures of Tinkerbell, patroness of lost boys, clever fixer of teapots, sacred in my pantheon of supernatural beings. My daughter covets it so strongly it is difficult to write, some days, over the whines. "Why can't I have it, please, why can't I have it???" She has at least a dozen notebooks, covered with butterflies and princesses and whatever catches her eye in the discount store; she is not deprived; she sits and writes poems in them with her vast collection of gel pens. Yet she wants this one so badly. I have to do the hard thing--some things are mommy's, some things are yours. I don't take your gel pens, do I? (Yet I do covet the gel pens, just as I sometimes covet the scotch and the diamonds and the green lawns and the widescreen tvs and the stainless steel gas ranges. Sometimes. But never the golf.) Mommy has boundaries, mommy can stick to her guns, mommy has made up her mind and will not change it for all the pleading. It has to be done. Mean mommy.
Here is my favorite poem by my daughter:
You are the boy I have been looking for
You are the girl I have been looking for
You are the boygirl I have been looking for
You are the girlboy I have been looking for