Sometimes a papa’s pride and a papa’s thrill are one and the same. Or, maybe they’re not, but they feel as if they are. What am I talking about? Baobao has for quite some while been able to “count” up to 10 — indeed, she could sometimes hit 16 or 17. But ask her to … A one, anna two, anna three, anna …
Introduction to The soggy, soggy grass of spring
In which Papa Zesser is reminded by a frustrated Mama Raven of the primary purpose of this blog: To serve as a record for my daughter, of my daughter’s first years on planet Earth. To capture her milestones and setbacks, her triumphs and tribulations (if any).
In other words, to provide for her a little light on those years that none of us are lucky enough to remember come that years we might want to.
Well actually, the reminder is the proximate cause of this new Letter to My Daughter, but not what it’s about.
For that, you’ll need to read more.
As a bad year for most of us in North America comes to a close (but a year which, I have to confess, was one of much joy for me personally) , I find myself posting a letter quite different from that I had hoped to write you on New Year’s Eve.
That was supposed to be a photo-rich retrospective, but I’m afraid it will have to wait. Meanwhile, I’ll reflect not on your general development but on a specific part of it. Namely, your penchant for correcting your parents’ mistakes.
Darling child, I dub thee Bésébodé!.
In which Papa Zesser writes to Baobao about our Thanksgiving return to Park Mont-Morissette near Maniwaki, Quebec, which was where we were when we were the night before we were certain that Mama Raven was carrying her.
In which Papa Zesser returns from a visit with Mama Raven and toddler Baobao to Parc de le Gatineau with decidedly mixed emotions.
As the west coast of the United States burns, five tropical storms churn through the Caribbean, and both fire and floods afflict much of the rest of the world, Baobao and company are able to visit a beautiful park in which, so it seems, all is well with the world.