We found some capsules Uncle Justin and Auntie Melissa sent. You put them in water, and (surprise!) they turn into little sponges. I thought it might be fun for Sonya to paint while I cleaned the kitchen (which, yes, is like shoveling in a snowstorm).
She painted a blue road.
I wonder where it leads? She wouldn’t tell me.
Sometimes I feel like a little sponge car hatched from a capsule. I’m being steered down a blue and uncertain road by some very small fingers. Where? Where am I going?
As each day passes, I feel more certain that leaving my career in medicine for my adventure as a mom and a writer will eventually prove to be one of the best decisions I could have made with my life.
The heaviness of being successful was replaced by the lightness of being a beginner again, less sure about everything. It freed me to enter one of the most creative periods of my life.
— Steve Jobs
I had one of the best moments at the playground today— an older woman with a boy who had just learned how to walk (I’ll assume she’s his grandmother) started talking to Flynn Rider.
“Tu t’appelles comment, toi?” she asked.
“Germ apple Fin Rider,” Sonya replied in Sonya French. I explained who Flynn Rider was.
“Quel âge as-tu, Flynn Rider?”
“Two years!” she said, triumphantly holding up two fingers on the same hand (a new skill).
The woman turned her attention to Leena, strapped to the front of me in a baby carrier.
“Is sister Leena Leena,” Sonya said.
“And who’s this?” the woman asked, pointing at me.
“Mommy name Mi-tah-lee,” Sonya said slowly, the way I say my name to people.
“Oui, exacte,” I said, nodding. (Of note: in Québec, French and English are fluid. Some things are said in one language, some in another. There’s a lot of back and forth).
“Mommy apple Mitali,” Sonya repeated, trying out some more French (Mommy s’appelle Mitali). “Mommy cry sad a pay peer.”
“Why Mommy crying? You make Mommy crying?” the older lady asked in an older lady scolding voice.
“What, Sonya?” I asked. “Can you say it again?”
“Mommy cry sad a pay peer.”
“Sonya, are you talking in French?”
“We yes, Mommy,” she answered. (Oui yes).
“Can you tell me in English?”
“Mommy write paper.”
Mommy cry sad a pay peer. Mommy écrit sur du papier.
“Mommy write stories,” Sonya added for clarity.
Her world is so simple. She puts on a blue vest and boots and she’s Flynn Rider. Why can’t I believe in myself the same way?
I pretended to brush some sand out of my eyes. It might be strangely appropriate that the words cry and écrit (she writes) sound the same when Sonya says them.