August 2008

Every man’s memory is his private literature. 

~Aldous Huxley

This weekend is the anniversary of two things woven inside one other well enough to tell a story.  

That story is the prologue of how I came to be here, exchanging words with you.

Mia starts first grade next week.  

It’s no less sad than starting Kindergarten, but admittedly less monumental.  Last year at this time, I was sorting a mess of feelings as my tiny peanut, who it seemed was just a bundle in a blanket a few months before, was laying out her uniform and requesting pigtails for the first day of school.

We wondered about Mia’s teacher and what our girl would hear on the playground.  We hoped she’d make friends easy, and crossed our fingers they’d be nice.  

We prepared to release our daughter like a cub on the Savanna, free to find herself as predator or prey.

Anyone with a five year old and a beating heart knows exactly where I’m coming from, but this was last year, so it was still new to me.

How did you deal with it, Writer Dad?

I wrote.

I didn’t Dear Diary, or any such thing.  I kept a journal, but it was just random thought strung together by memory in an ernest attempt to never forget.

Like taking pictures with a pencil.

I’d been doing that for a while, but even Daisy’s best efforts had still not swayed me to sit long enough to spin a yarn.  

Mia moving to Kindergarten… well, that did the trick just fine.

We were reading a lot of chapter books; an even mix of what Mia liked and what we wanted her too.  I thought I’d write something we could all agree on.  So I sat down at the keyboard and started to write.

The story that spilled, was really little more than my own daughter talking for a few thousand words, as if I were rapidly scribbling as she pontificated about her life on the final week before Kindergarten.  When the story was finished, I printed it out and folded it in half, in the worst mockery of a bound book.  

I read the story, Daisy cried.  

Then I read it to Mia.

This is my favorite part…

As Mia was hearing the book for the first time, she started to finish my sentences.  Now that first little booklet could probably never get published, but it captured my baby better than a coffee table full of glossy photographs.

The next week, Mia went to school, and everything started to change.  

In a couple months, I’d be midway through the first draft of a novel, and often assembling my thought in loopy rhythm.

This project is special.  It’s exactly as old as my life as a writer, both sharing their first birthday this weekend.

Little has changed since that first draft.  

I looked at the story with fresh eyes a few weeks back.  I changed the names of people and locations, but otherwise the book is identical to the thirty pages printed (and awkwardly assembled) one year ago.

I hope you enjoy it.  You’ll find an excerpt below:

Writer Dad

If you enjoyed my words, please subscribe.  I’ll be back on Monday.

 

Mia Maria and Two Times the Kindergarten:

Hola! (That means hello in Spanish).   

My name is Mia Maria Robinson.  I am five and a half years old, and in one week my life is going to change forever!   

At least thatʼs what my mom and dad keep saying. 

Next week, Iʼm starting Kindergarten at Abraham Lincoln Elementary School.  My parents have been telling me about Kindergarten since before I was even four, but they just started acting weird like a couple of months ago.   

I think it actually started when we went to buy my new uniforms for school. We went shopping for clothes, just like we do at the end of every Summer, but the whole time we were there, my mom and dad kept looking at each other with these really sad faces, even though they were still saying really happy words. 

Like my mom said: “Youʼre such a big girl, Mia.  I canʼt believe your going to be in Kindergarten,” and my dad said, “I canʼt believe how big you look in your uniform.  Youʼre such a little Kindergirly.”  And then he scooped me up with a great big hug and passed me to my mom like I was a churro.  

Even though they were taking turns hugging me, they both seemed kind of sad… 

Disclaimer: This is not Writer Dad’s voice. It’s Mia’s. Writer Dad just types a lot faster.

 The last three Fridays: “The Truth in our Make-Believe,” “The Eighth Wonder of the World,” and “Bye Bye Butterfly.”

Everywhere is walking distance if you have the time. 

~Steven Wright

I had to gas up yesterday.

It made me sad.

No, not because of that, though I did pay with a fifty, and couldn’t tip the tank of the Toyota.

Back in early June, Daisy and I made a bet (with ourselves).

Mia’s Immersion program is on the other side of town, as is Max’s pre-school, so our schedule requires us to burn a bit of fuel.

With only two weeks left of schlepping, we decided to see if we could go the summer without gassing up a single time.

Well we certainly tried, and we almost made it.

We left the house nearly every day, but Max can count the number of times we got in the car.

From a variety of reasons, here are five:

• Gas is ridiculous.  Last May, our gas budget swallowed our entertainment budget.  That’s like buying a ticket to wait outside.  

• Mia’s program is amazing, and free, so it’s easy to consider transportation cost as cheap tuition.  That logic loses wings in summer.

• Because we can.  All eight of our legs are in perfect working order, and we live downtown in a quietly large city.  We prefer to get all our laziness done on Sunday.  There isn’t any reason we can’t walk to 90% of the places we need to go.  Grocery store, library, movie theater, book store, ice-cream, Walmart (yeah, yeah, boo, hiss).

• Miles are like dollars; sometimes they should be felt.  Just like using a credit card dulls the concept of money, getting inside a vehicle to travel further than three blocks, distorts the space between A and B.  We rarely use credit cards, and often walk.  We want our children to feel the distance, and understand it in terms beyond the number of traffic lights.

• You see things through a different lens.  Life’s different, blurring by at thirty-five miles an hour.  In a car you’re a tourist.  On the street, a citizen.  Seated, I could never see the steam ascending a coffee cup as it loses it’s thick to clear air, sailing from the lips of a quiet man who looks too old in his solitude.  I would miss shadows wrinkling as the electric train idles in front of city hall and pedestrians in suits, both cheap and expensive, show displeasure at having to wait. 

Our children also see these things.  I know because we discuss them.

The walking is wonderful.  

We hold hands, and look both ways.

We ask questions, and wait for answers.

We anticipate our arrival, and feel reward when it happens.

I’m glad we did it.  It made me wonder why we need two cars.  We travel in a tribe, and the rare use of both at the same time melts a necessity into a luxury.

Maybe eight dollars of gas wouldn’t be the end of the world.  Maybe it’d be some kind of new beginning.

Writer Dad

If you enjoyed my words, please subscribe.  I promise I’ll be back tomorrow.

Barbara Swafford was kind enough to select Writer Dad as the New Blog of the Month. I feel really lucky. Check out the wonderful things she has to say.  Also, Writer Dad has a guest post over on City Mama today. The theme is the Eighties. If you have a couple of minutes, it’d be awesome if you dropped in.

If you liked these words, you’ll probably love, “Forget the Thrilling Rides, I’ll Take the Floating Rock,” “Adios,” or “Sink or Swim.“

My problem lies in reconciling my gross habits with my net income. 

~Errol Flynn

This is an exciting time in life; my family on the brink of a shift.

Most of it’s wonderful, but like any move from blue ribbon to better, there’s little reward without any stairs to climb.  

Sweet isn’t near as sweet if you’ve never known sour.

Some of the vinegar in the emigration to full time writer, is this long middling, when the idea of being a chooch frequently worms its way between my ears, lays eggs, then wiggles down my spine to settle where I sit. 

Psst… Writer Dad.

Sigh.  Yes, incessant voice inside my head?

Most readers don’t know random Italian slang.  You only got yours because you read the forward to Mario Puzo’s, “Fortunate Pilgrim.” (Not that you actually read the book.)

Oh, incessant voice.  Good point.

A chooch, according to Italians, is someone who allows their family to fully indulge in their eccentricities, even though they don’t lay a single crumb on the table. 

I’d rather have teeth breaking through the skin on the side of my face. 

I love writing.  It’s harder than breathing, but easier than doing the dishes. 

If I can carve out a living for myself, and my loved ones, by letting my fingers dance across these keys, then I’ll bow down and count myself as one of the lucky ones.  But I can’t stand the idea of pouring over piles of syllables, belaboring every single page and paragraph of a novel that might take another year, and designing rhymes that no one will ever enunciate, when there’s a stack of bills that need to be paid (and quickly). 

If I’m a writer, than my responsibility is to not only produce content that makes me smile, my family proud, and audience happy, but that also puts food in our tummies and fattens the college fund. 

I don’t want to be the guy who goes to his garage with three drunk buddies and plays off key oldies, mouthing off about one day getting a gig, while his family’s inside passing a tub of popcorn and saying, “Where’s Daddy? 

I want to write. 

I want to write chapter books for my children, and a love story for my wife; something funny and tragic for my mom, and maybe a western for my dad.  Perhaps I’ll pen something dark and quiet, cynical and sweet for my sister. 

I can’t wait to write a book on raising children or running a pre-school, and I’ve got an awesome idea for a sci-fi novel.  I’ll probably start on it as soon as I’m finished with the book being written right now. 

I don’t need a Costco sticker covering up the last letter in the title of my tome, but my time must amount to something. 

I just can’t stand the thought of being a chooch.

Writer Dad

Disclaimer: Daisy does not endorse this post. I have read it to her three times. One had this really hilarious ending that was far better than this one. But I digress. Daisy doesn’t think that I could ever be a Chooch, and poses a strong objection to the word, especially when used in relation to myself.

If you enjoyed my words, please subscribe.  I promise I’ll be back tomorrow.

If you liked that, you’ll probably love, “Here’s a Macbook, Go Make a Million,” “Sink or Swim,” or “Your Baby’s Born in the Rough Draft. You Raise it in the Rewrite.”

“If a fellow isn’t thankful for what he’s got, he isn’t likely to be thankful for what he’s going to get.”

~Frank A. Clark

“Is it going to hurt?”

Max furrowed his tiny brow.

“No,” I said.  ”It’s going to pinch.”

“Like this?”

He pinched me, certain I’m sure, that he sent my forearm into burning agony, but it’s more like the whisper of a dandelion settling on my skin.

“No,” I said.  ”Like this.”

I gave Max’s arm a nip; a close approximation to what the shot might feel like.”

“Ow.”

“Did it hurt?”

“A little bit.”

“Not too much?”

“This much.”  Max squeezed his thumb and pointer, leaving just enough room for a ladybug to slip through, but only so long as her wings were folded.  ”Why do I have to get a shot.”

“Because they put a few tiny bad guys inside you, so like a million good guys can beat them up and tell them to never come back.”

“Then I won’t get sick?”

“Right.”

“I’m not going to cry,” Max said.  He shook his head.

“It’s okay if you do.”

“Yeah….” He held the last syllable like a note on a trumpet.  ”I don’t think I’m going to.”

We’ve been stuck in the tiny room with the long sheet of butcher paper for the better part of an hour.  Just me and the three year old.  We have a trio of books, and we’ve read each several times.  I’ve already made the tongue depressors dance, and fashioned a set of chicken balloons from the disposable gloves.  I know I should stay out of the doctor’s stuff, but forty-five minutes is a long time.  

I start to wonder what it’s like to have the seemingly infinite power of a doctor.  I picture him next door, flirting with the nurse, or maybe dinking around with his iphone.

We had an appointment, and there was no one before us.  What’s taking so long?  

Forty-five minutes waiting in a tiny room with a three year old is like an afternoon in an elevator.

“What’s taking such a long long time?”

Max’s question is reasonable, but it’s turning into a whine.

“Sorry buddy,” I tousle his hair, “I’m sure the doctor will be here soon.”

“Okay.”  His shoulders collapse and he crawls in my lap.

I feel about doctors as I do about contractors.  I’m not happy I have to bend over every time I want to do business, but I accept it.  

They went to med school, I didn’t.  They have a skill set that I do not.  

But don’t make my three year old wait without a good reason.  

That’s not cool.

I tell Max I’ll be back; he promises not to budge.  I step into the hallway.

The nurse has misfiled our paperwork, and the doctor doesn’t know we’re waiting.

Grrr.

Fifteen minutes later, the derelict nurse enters.  He says, as he displays the needle, “Sorry guys, this is my first day.”  He then approaches Max with the self assurance of a tourist without a map in a country without vowels.

“Have you given a shot before?”  I shift my body.  The nurse has to stop.  I’m not trying to be confrontational, but I’m quite suddenly unhappy.

“Not on a kid.”  He won’t look me in the eye.

“I’m sure you’ll be an ace someday,” I said.  ”But we’ve been waiting for an hour, and I think we need another nurse.”

“Sure thing,” he said.  

He shuts the door and I feel angry with myself for not giving him the benefit, but I’m doing the right thing.

The door swings open a minute later and a woman walks in who looks like she was giving shots back when they were wiping out polio.  

“How are ya little guy?”  The nurse smiles and every one of her hundred wrinkles reach for the ceiling.

“Good.”  Max laughs.

“This is going to pinch a little, okay.”

Max looks at me and whispers.  ”I’m not going to cry.”

“Okay, buddy.”  I offer my palm.  ”Do you want to hold my hand?”

“Yeah.”

“Look at me, okay.”

“Okay.”

Max holds my gaze as the needle breaks, then enters his flesh.  His eyes widen, brighten, then glaze.  The nurse finishes her work, and removes the needle.

“All done,” I said.

Max turned to the nurse with two dry cheeks.  ”Thank you for my shot.”

This sounds like the most polite sentence ever whispered.

The nurse spins in surprise, clearly trying to determine an appropriate response.  But, “You’re welcome,” is all she can manage.

Five minutes later, we’re at the front desk with Max being fawned over.  He’s given not one, but one of each kind of sticker scattered at the bottom of the ‘sorry we had to stick you‘ box.

“Did it hurt,” I asked as I lifted him into his car seat.

“No,” he shook his head.  ”But it took a long long time.”

Writer Dad

If you enjoyed my words, please subscribe.  I promise I’ll be back tomorrow.

If you liked that, you’ll probably love “But Daddy,” “Bye Bye Butterfly,” or even this.

Childhood is a short season. 

~Helen Hayes

We went to the performing arts center to see Elmo in a Sesame Street stage show.  Of course the merchandising was out of control (ten dollars for a red mylar balloon, beaming with Elmo’s furry face is ridiculous), but the event was otherwise very sweet. 

What thrilled me most, wasn’t the delighted look on our little rascal’s face as lights dimmed, music swelled, and an Elmo who looked three times taller than he should have ran out clapping to take center stage opposite an even taller Big Bird. 

I’m thrilled he loved it, but wasn’t surprised.  

My surprise was from the obvious joy and steady amusement hanging on Mia’s face. 

I’m thankful that at six, Mia isn’t too long in the tooth for something as innocent and wonderful as Sesame Street.  I was a bit surprised, more than a few times during this last school year, with some of the things Mia’s friends were in to. 

High School Musical, specifically. 

There isn’t anything wrong with High School Musical.  It’s just that Mia’s still a little girl and we’d love to keep her that way as long as possible.  If she were in high school, then I’d be thrilled that something so innocent could charm her.  But she isn’t.  She’s in Kindergarten.  And I’d prefer if she wasn’t emulating a life lived behind the walls of high school, no matter how antiseptic the version might be.

Daisy and I put the flick on our Netflix queue, just to see what all the fuss was about. 

There were no surprises. 

The film is exactly what you’d expect from a Disney produced musical set in a middle american high school: almost garishly idealistic, with a lot of discussion about topics that are not yet a part of a kindergartner’s world. 

We don’t shelter Mia. 

At least not when it comes to things such as music, or language. 

She is exceedingly articulate, can exchange verbiage with any adult, and can separate the distinct instruments from the many tracks in almost any song.  

Still, we try to nurture the innocence inside her, knowing full well it won’t last forever. She has plenty of time to grow up, and Daisy and I aren’t in a hurry. 

Mia’s been made fun of at school this year (for certain a few times, and perhaps more than she’s told us) for still liking “baby” things like My Little Pony and Strawberry Shortcake. 

I’m glad she does. 

We canceled our cable almost two years ago.  We live off the Imac and Netflix.

I’m proud to say, the number of commercials our children have seen or heard in their short lives can be counted on a single hand.

Time will march and take our little ones.  For now, I’m glad that the harmless la la la la, la la la la from a red furry monster can still cause my six year old to smile.

Writer Dad

If you enjoyed my words, please subscribe.  I’ll promise I’ll be back again tomorrow.

If you haven’t already chosen your movie for the Weekend, or even if you have, please give this some thought and honor this family.  Thanks to CityMama for the heads up.

Thank you.  See you on Monday.

Writer Dad

Be careful of your thoughts; they may become words at any moment. 

~Ira Gassen, Author

Do you remember when you were little and you used to play pretend?  You had a chariot pulled by a team of dinosaurs wearing purple capes, and a flying monkey friend named Monkeechy…

No?

Oh… um… never mind.

Well you still played in the Land of Make-Believe, right?  Did you have fun?  Of course you did.  Nonsense is the best.

That, at its core, is writing.  Of course, it’s a really long, drawn out game of pretend, where you have to keep changing the rules and deciding which imaginary characters aren’t allowed to play with you anymore, but the train pulls into the imagination station just the same.

And not just fiction.  This works for non-fiction as well.  

Some of the best posts I read are those where you can feel the author stepping slightly outside his skin, toying with the medium.

In fiction, this is currency.  Fantastic worlds, populated by impossible beings, or suburbs bursting with friends and neighbors; both are born in the brain, no different than Monkeechy.

Last year, while driving, a line popped inside my head, followed by a second to match.  

They were funny.  

Laughing, I pulled to the side of the road and searched through the mini-van for something to write on.  This was in the dark ages of last Winter, when the thought of being a writer was almost abstract.

A napkin… too crumply.  

A wrapper from an old cheeseburger (gross, Writer Dad) …. too waxy.  

A receipt… too small.

My hand!  

No, too sweaty.

I pulled back into traffic and started repeating lines.  By the time I was on the freeway, I was singing a four stanza song to myself.  

Seven and a half minutes later, I exited the freeway, struggling to remember a pile of lines, quickly evaporating from my mind.

I raced passed a wide eyed Daisy.  ”I need a minute,” I mumbled.

I scribbled.  

Stopped.  

Then stared at my paper with a smile the size a banana.  

But we had work to do, and if I wanted rave reviews for my ditty, then the worst possible time to present it would be during any one of the six-hundred and twenty-four minutes left before bedtime.  

Six-hundred and twenty-four minutes later…

“This is really good.”

“Really?”  I don’t say this as much as squeal it in a voice at least three octaves above the baseline needed to sire children.

“It sounds like you.”

That story was different than the few that had come before.  It was playful and confident, with a more natural voice.  

About a week later, I took the story and shifted it to the perspective of a ten year old boy.

The ten year old I was, voiced by the man of many more years I am today.

That story is not the one I have for you today.  But it is related.

The boy is named Lucas Bright.  His stories are short, with something to say.  Today’s ditty is his introduction.  

Last Friday’s tale was written with purpose, this Friday’s with mirth.

There’s a teaser below.  If you decide to download, you may do whatever you’d like with the wee-Book; copy and pass as much as you want.  It’s yours.  It’s two dollars (a Venti black coffee).  

If you bought The Eighth Wonder of the World, it’s in your inbox already.

Last Friday was awesome; let’s make this Friday awesome and one.

Writer Dad

If you enjoyed my words, please subscribe.  I promise I’ll be back on Monday.

 

My name is Lucas Bright.  Grown-ups say I’m smart.  They taught me to ask questions.  

I’m gonna go ahead and start…

 

Last Week’s Story: The Eighth Wonder of the World

“Don’t wait to make your son a great man - make him a great boy.”  

~Author Unknown

So the other day, Mia and I were…  

“Dad.”

“Hold on buddy, I’m telling a story.”

“But I have to tell you something.”

“Okay, but hurry.  This post isn’t gonna write itself.”

“It’s my turn.”

“What do you mean?  Your turn for what?”

“You talked about Mia last day.  It’s my turn.”

“No, Max.  Yesterday I wrote about language, and how we learn…”

“No Daddy, you talked about Mia’s school.  You always talk about her.  You never talk about me.”

“That’s not true, Max.”

“Yes, Daddy.  It is.”

“I see what you’re saying, Buddy, but I did a whole post about you right when I first started.  Remember?”

“I know how to count, Daddy.  This is just like all the pictures of Mia in iphoto.“

“… Um… Well, do you want to watch a movie?”

“Daddy…”

“It’s just that you’re such a good boy, Max.  And people like conflict.  Mia gives me more to talk about.  You know how Daddy keeps working on his book?  It’s because there’s not enough conflict.”

“Maybe you could work on the book instead of talking about Mia.“

“You’re right, Max.  Come here and give me a hug.”

I know exactly what to say. 

My son Max is the nicest person I’ve ever met.  

Yes, I know.  Being his father should reduce my opinion to little more than an infomercial intruding from another room, but really, if you met him, I’m sure you’d agree. 

He says thank you for everything, from a donut before school (a rarity, I promise) to a shot in the arm from the doctor (I’ll tell you that story some other time). 

He admits when he’s tired, and tells me at least ten times a day that he loves me, that I’m his best friend, or both. 

He will share any toy with anyone, without so much as a thought to slow him. 

He is not yet familiar with the worst of humanity, and still believes in everything from Santa Clause to the Easter Bunny without the thinnest wrinkle of suspicion. 

He is a teacher’s dream and would make any parent proud. 

What about the conflict?

Well, thankfully, he isn’t perfect. 

If our rascal was perfect now, Daisy and I would be living in dread of the moment the rug would be yanked from under our feet; terrified that the days were numbered until our little boy was swallowed by the monster of adolescence, causing us to rescind every kind word we’d ever gushed on his behalf. 

No, Max may be impossibly nice, but he can also be quite the little rascal, with just enough pesky conduct to assure us that none of his boy parts are broken. 

His three most reassuring behaviors:

• Max has the innate ability to lead (manipulate) just about any child (no more than two years his senior) into doing exactly what he wants at any given time.  This is a jedi like gift, but he has not always chosen to use it for good. 
• He has the ability to migrate from riotous laughter to sullen pout in the thinnest slice of a second (a performance that works exponentially better on Daisy than it does on me, though the opposite I’m sure is true with Mia). 
• Max has the occasional, yet unwavering conviction that he is in charge of drafting the house rules, and that everyone else must have simply missed the memo. 

But even in their totality, or packed inside a single day, Max really is the most delightful boy I could ever imagine - generous, and funny, and nice.  

Seriously, Max, if you were any less of a rascal, I’d be searching for my receipt. 

Writer Dad

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If you can speak three languages you’re trilingual.  If you can speak two languages you’re bilingual.  If you can speak only one language you’re an American.

~Author Unknown

Speaking to my children in Spanish, like the morning cup of coffee or hot water beating on my back, is a small pleasure that polishes each one of my days.  

I exaggerate my accent and send my gestures sailing over the top of ridiculous.  My voice swells, especially when my tongue rolls along the outside of a double R, or when I’m delighting in the oral treasure of an Ñ.  

Amid the million must do’s of any given day, it’s brilliant fun to steal a moment and step inside the skin of a character that isn’t quite me.  

Like I’m dressing up for a kind of verbal Halloween.  

I am not fluent.  In fact, I struggle for every well constructed sentence.  This is part of the reason for my inflated accent.  I treat Spanish exactly like singing.

I cannot do it well, so I make sure I do it loud.

I long for the authority of a second tongue.  Spanish is my first new language, but I plan to follow it with something more eclectic… Klingon perhaps.  

I never learned Spanish as a child, despite my Honey and Papí both being born in Mexico, and raising their daughter with fluency.  As an adult, I struggle to absorb new vocabulary into a mind already littered with everything from next week’s list, to every thread from the last four seasons of Lost.  

I want my children to have what I did not.

As some Writer Dad readers already know, Mia attends a Dual Immersion program. 90% of her school day is in Spanish.  

Yes, I love my daughter, and no, this isn’t cruel.  

“Why don’t you just drop her off in Tijuana?”

That’s what one of my best friends said when I first told him (quite excitedly) that we wanted to place Mia in this particular program.  This beautiful philosophy, not everyone understands.

Music and language are highly beneficial to the development of the mathematical mind.  The internet is an awfully big place, filled with towering terabytes of text, but you’d have to comb it all day to find a half pile of research that disagrees with this elemental truth.

But Writer Dad, how will I know when my child is ready for music, or a second language?

Because you will look down and see their ears.

Children are sponges, and we should not ever underestimate them, because they will absorb what we ask.  Delivery is important, of course, which is why we would never throw her into a school in Tijuana.  

That would be immersion, not dual immersion.  

What makes dual immersion successful is the consistent practice of full body response.  This means that the teacher employs language, in addition to gestures, when teaching their class.  

This was wonderfully illustrated one day at the dinner table, sometime toward the end of Mia’s first month of Kindergarten.  

“Is it hard sometimes,” I asked. “Not knowing what Sra. is saying,”  

“Only if I’m not paying attention,” she said, barely looking up.  

Exactly.  

How is this different from life?  How much do we miss, simply because we’re not paying attention?  

Being in the Dual Immersion program has not only taught our daughter the basics of another language, it’s taught her some of the fundamentals of a fulfilling life.  

If you really want to learn, you have to pay attention.  

This summer has been wonderful.  I help Mia with her Spanish, she helps me with mine.  I have more vocabulary than she, but Mia strings what she has together as beautifully as if she were born in Barcelona (Gracias Señora Mochila).  

The two of us exchange words in a room full of toddlers, without anyone wise to what we’re saying.  

It’s like we have our own secret code.  Of course, we’re using our bodies as we speak, so if the toddlers are paying attention, eventually they’ll get it too.

Writer Dad

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If you click here, you can read Writer Dad’s thank you to Señora.