Home from York for Avery's 11th birthday. John stayed home with a nasty fever, the kind that makes you (him) run for a cab when he's let us go off on our own, only to be glad later on that one didn't come and he could stay in bed and sleep it off.
I've spent the late evening reading one of those things that if you knew what you were getting into you wouldn't read on your child's birthday, and yet something you admire so much you know you'll be ordering many copies for everyone you know. Adam Gopnik knows way too much about the preciousness of a New York childhood (part of his book, A Home in New York: Through the Children's Gate, being post September 11th). All I could do after sobbing a bit was to creep into Avery's room and absolutely savor the sight of her sleeping soundly, shoulders humped away from her beloved best friend Anna, who was clutching a stuffed pony in her arms (a guest sleepover object, whatever she had brought being hidden under the covers), and echo Adam's thoughts: just let them stay this age, let them stay little, in my house, under my wing. And knowing it's so far from reality.
Happy Birthday, Avery.
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