I'm pretty sure this blog is degrading into two themes: the arrogance and soullessness of the right wing and hilarious things my kid says. Perhaps my focus is narrowing.
Anyhoo, on Friday nights Laney and I often go to bed at the same time. I was going to make a self-deprectating joke here about how glamorous my life is, but I am no longer the least bit ashamed of going to bed at 8:00 on a Friday.
Instead of stories, we get in my bed and watch Sponge Bob. I know you guys are really blown away by my parenting skills. I was going to read from Proust or Thomas Jefferson, but since she's not a native-born American she can't be president anyway. So what's the point?
Around 8:30, SpongeBob having ended up on top despite the failure of the rest of Bikini Bottom to really grok the purity of his optimism, we turned out the lights and Laney demanded that I tell her a story. So I decided to tell her the story of her adoption again. It had been a while, and she was old enough for me to add some detail, make it a little less fairy-tale-y.
Dudes, this is a seriously squishy story. I often have to stop in the middle to gather myself together. I remember how wee she was, how hungry, the way she smelled and how goddamn sick she was. The agonizing, torturous frustration of waiting for the barely-post-socialist bureaucratic Russian government to act! The unsurpassable joy of watching her push her own stroller through the the doors at O'Hare!
And, if I may, I can spin a yarn. I am an excellent story teller. Each scene a fully realized tableau. Each detail rich with corresponding emotion. If I told it to you, you'd be brushing tears from your cheek, feeling almost like you'd been there!
And when the story ended, Laney, sleepily, said to me, "You know what part I really liked?"
"What, sweetheart," I said, tenderly brushing a lock of hair from her eyes.
"The part where I barfed on the airplane and then pooped in my panties in the airport." This was followed by gales of laughter. Admittedly, from both of us.