23 months
My girl,
Twenty-three months already. It seems so long, yet we still have food in the refrigerator older than you.
The past month has presented an epic fork in the road for your parents, but you are still oblivious to that decision. You have been focused on other things. Mostly I am talking about the singing. Your little voice is remarkable--you do not inherit this from me. I am not a singer, but you know this already. You, on the hand, have the sweetest little voice I've ever heard. After you sang yourself to sleep last night, your dad and I spent a while trying to imitate you. Neither of us could hit the pitch, but we realized that our approximations failed on a deeper level. Your singing voice is like pure innocence in audio and we are too tainted to replicate such sweet murmurs.
You are just a little girl and no one has burdened you with the weight of feminism or marxism or vegetarianism, those ideologies that seem like a given when you're fresh out of college. No one has told that leaving your job and following your husband to France won't be a career killer because employers still expect women to behave that way. No one warned you that you might experience a complete meltdown when you realize that you are indeed fulfilling the prophecy of the professor on your hiring committee who asked you if your husband would "whisk you off somewhere " when he finished his degree.
T., I'm trying to let the promise of Paris shake off my fears of unemployment, and today when the latter feels very real, it's your little voice singing noo-night to rabbit and tiger and frog and penguin and the eight blankets you must have layered precisely upon you that makes it all seem okay.
Almost-doo, indeed.
Love,
Mama
Twenty-three months already. It seems so long, yet we still have food in the refrigerator older than you.
The past month has presented an epic fork in the road for your parents, but you are still oblivious to that decision. You have been focused on other things. Mostly I am talking about the singing. Your little voice is remarkable--you do not inherit this from me. I am not a singer, but you know this already. You, on the hand, have the sweetest little voice I've ever heard. After you sang yourself to sleep last night, your dad and I spent a while trying to imitate you. Neither of us could hit the pitch, but we realized that our approximations failed on a deeper level. Your singing voice is like pure innocence in audio and we are too tainted to replicate such sweet murmurs.
You are just a little girl and no one has burdened you with the weight of feminism or marxism or vegetarianism, those ideologies that seem like a given when you're fresh out of college. No one has told that leaving your job and following your husband to France won't be a career killer because employers still expect women to behave that way. No one warned you that you might experience a complete meltdown when you realize that you are indeed fulfilling the prophecy of the professor on your hiring committee who asked you if your husband would "whisk you off somewhere " when he finished his degree.
T., I'm trying to let the promise of Paris shake off my fears of unemployment, and today when the latter feels very real, it's your little voice singing noo-night to rabbit and tiger and frog and penguin and the eight blankets you must have layered precisely upon you that makes it all seem okay.
Almost-doo, indeed.
Love,
Mama
posted by geobrarian at 4:22 PM
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