We were reading in bed like we usually do. You were extorting me for tickles, like you usually do. Up came your Yankees shirt and there they were. The very beginnings of womanhood on your chest. No! I thought. Not yet. She still sleeps with Gymbo-the-Clown who peeks over her shoulder with a smug grin as I spoon my beautiful tom-girl.
You are the baby with the Alfred Hitchcock cheeks, the toddler who took my big toe gently between four teeth and bit down hard, the girl who will only wear braids and never a dress. You’re on the way to becoming a remarkable woman. But slow down, smell the roses, wait a moment by the gate for me to gather some perfumed flowers, a tidy bouquet to send you off and on your way. I love you, I love you, I love you.
- The Puberty Video’s at the end of the Year
- Why I Stopped Trying To Make My Daughter Be Pretty
- Experts Say, “Don’t Tell Your Daughter She’s Pretty!” I Say, Why Not?
- Yea Though I Walk Through The Valley Of Lice
- The Drugs Talk With My 11-Year old
- My Kids Aren’t Me
- What Happened When I Forced my Daughter into the Ocean aka Bad Parenting
NO SPAM, else I'll be forced to watch re-runs of Jersey Shore as punishment.