Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Racing thoughts


The kiddo is five.

It's old enough for her to pick out her own clothes (sometimes matched) but not old enough for her to get going full-boar on the tree swing out back.

It's old enough for her to be trusted brushing her teeth, but young enough to insist on being snuggled to sleep each night.

It's old enough for her to be in kindergarten.

Old enough for me to think about joining the PTA.

When i'm lying down with her for that nightly snuggle i'm usually fighting off the sleep monster myself -- willing my brain to stay on and not succumb to the warm covers, at only eight at night. But other times my mind is racing. Tonight it was racing. I've committed to this new life where i'm gonna create my own destiny, and i'm finding that takes up a lot of headspace. I'm constantly wanting to dash to the notebook to scribble out a few new ideas. Tonight, among the reflections about the kindergarten meeting i attended tonight and the sweet full feeling of tacos in my belly, the thought that persisted was the thought that Raising a Revolutionary is going to turn into a book, when i get going on the immersion school posts next year. I can't promise it unfailingly to you, my four loyal readers, but i can say it is on my mind. I want to write each day about the progress she's making, because i there is almost nothing on this planet i find more fascinating than 1. my daughter and 2. people learning new languages. Tonight:

The kiddo holds out her hand to the maestra of the kindergarten, blurting out "Hola!" and beaming.

"Buenas noches!" Maestra Garcie beams back, "Quieres venir a nuestra escuela?" The kiddo droops, eases her hands, then feet, then entire body behind my knees. She gurgles out something that sounds like a word, then buries her head in my backside. The realization that only using "hola" is not going to cut it in this kindergarten...

Yeah i know that blogging is perhaps the plodding, lazy, easily-linear form of crafting a long-form story. Or perhaps we're going to see a lot more blogs-turned-books out there, so every wannabe novelist can feign to have their own little New Yorker. But hell, maybe the other parents about to embark on immersion schooling for the 12 years might find it entertaining. So let's make it a loose promise. It's a feather, balanced on the tip of a fork, held on by some hot sauce. Eso si que es.

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