Her appetite for movies—watched not on a television set but on a laptop, at close range—has always exceeded what one would normally expect from a little kid.
We used movies as a form of reward and as a means of punishment.
The terrible image of her standing by a road, displaying the sign to passing cars, formed in my mind: my daughter as a media panhandler.
I didn’t want to have to answer questions about that word.
I lay there, wondering what in the world she might make of “Sears, Roebuck.” Or what she would make of the name Lady Bird. And what about this abrupt, hectoring way of getting married?
Caro’s biography casts in a new light the carousel of pride and anxiety that parents experience while assessing the progress of their kids.
The book made me vow to be less focused on accomplishment. Fortunately, day-to-day life also proceeds at the granular level, though without the luxury of being able to put the narrative down, and these concerns fell by the wayside.
I told her to go outside and look for worms, something that she enjoyed doing over the weekend. She curled up in a ball of lamentation. I decided to scan the shelves for an inappropriate book to give her.
A moment later, I tossed her Rilke’s “Letters to a Young Poet.” I walked out of the room to make breakfast, and glanced back to see her examining the cover. When I returned, she was outside, looking for worms, wearing a shirt of mine to keep warm.
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