Very, very rarely do I think, “I’ve got this parenting thing
figured out.”
Actually, I’ve never thought that. Ever. (Nor have I ever met a parent who ever thought that. Ever.)
But very, very rarely I do think, “Maybe I’m not doing
everything wrong.”
Like when Frances pulls out a New Yorker, makes herself
comfortable on the couch, and “reads.”
I can take some credit for that, yes? Maybe if we start studying now, as an adult she’ll have a vocabulary to rival Anthony Lane’s.
A mother can dream.
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