Good morning from Williamsburg

"Spring" break in the South. She took off her winter coat long enough to display her dress, which had her plenty tickled, but otherwise we opted for Lands' End 21st-century help against the 40-degree wind and rain. Snow due on Tuesday.

Home sweet home?

Edith wants a cat. To have a cat, Edith's family must own its home. Edith is small but determined. She reads up. She shares what she learns. She pesters. She pleads. She paints grand images.

At age nine, Edith will move into her sixth home--the first one her parents own. Looks like we are finally buying into the American dream.

There may have been other factors in play, too. No promises about the cat. Here goes nothing.

(Yes, that's the actual staircase. Zillow listing here.)

Older, wiser

Older...

I'll be honest: The picture is a kick, but I didn't love the birthday party that generated this photograph. It was a music video party, and the girls were at a studio that gave them clothes and accessories, provided a dance coach, and helped them film a series of four pop videos. Edith had a good time jumping around singing with her friends and seems devoid of any more adolescent aspirations to idol status, unlike a few of her peers who were writhing in front of the camera in crop tops. But just the fact that a birthday party encouraged any eight year old to writhe in front of a camera makes me cringe. And I'm disturbed that Edith is now wandering around the house singing, "Let's make a night you won't remember; I'll be the one you can't forget" with no idea of what she's saying.

Wiser...

Not that it was easier to stomach Edith's version of growing older and wiser. She spends an hour after school most days hanging around my office while I meet with students, coordinate with my colleagues, prep for the next day, etc. She overhears a lot. One day earlier this week she and I were finally headed out together after a rap session in which all my department members were letting their hair down. (Maybe it's the winter, but the past week has seen an undue number of encounters with hair-trigger student parents on the warpath.)

As we walked across the parking lot, I mentioned to Edith that I'm concerned sometimes that my colleagues and I complain too much in front of her. I wanted her to know that at the end of the day, I love my job and think she attends a good school.

"Why does it matter whether I'm there or not?" she asked. "What you should be concerned about is that you complain a lot, regardless of my presence."


It's both wonderful and terrible when your child is old enough to deliver real correction to her erring parent.