open for love.
Behold the poem delivered by my seven year-old (inaudibly, despite the microphone three centimeters from her lips) at today’s Montessori matricidal celebration. I think she wanted to leave people with the impression that these qualities might be ascribed to me, without fully committing. On her way out the door this morning, she reminded me to “wear something nice” to the party, a sad indictment of the raggedy show I usually put on. But not as sad as the fact that what I actually wore had been scavenged from the dirty laundry hamper just thirty minutes earlier. I don’t think she noticed. On the other hand, I’m probably just being “optimistic.”