Jon and I had been married nearly 12 years. It was time to pop the question again. I had taken his last name as mine. Would he like to add my maiden name to his?
My daughter Christina discovered the art of rhetoric when she was being weaned from baby bottle to plastic cup. She’d say, “I want milk and I don’t want it in a cup” — an elegant illocutionary statement that usually got her what she wanted, her bottle.
Growing up in Michigan, I read “Hiawatha,” but I was never exposed to the poems and stories of Jane Johnston Schoolcraft, a nineteenth-century Ojibway Indian from the Upper Peninsula. I was culturally deprived.
In the months and years before she died of breast cancer, Beverly Bondy Rose created a safe and loving place for her little daugher and the people around her.
Things were getting serious. My boyfriend had moved his goldfish into my apartment. I had returned from a long weekend to find that Jon had moved his dimestore pets from his place to mine. He was sheepish about this.
Christina likes pink. Given a choice, my five-year-old daughter will take the pink balloon, the pink panties, the pink baseball bat. And Christina likes her pink pink. Cerise, rose, fuchsia – none of the variations on the color pink will do it for her. She wants the real thing, powder puff pink, little girl pink.