The miracle of puppetry has publisher at the edge of her seat in Drury Lane
Eventually, this staged version of My Neighbor Totoro will make its way to New York, at which point all my NYC readers should make their way to see the giant Totoro puppet. So sayeth the Publisher.
Okay, needed a bit of a break after the fifth anniversary post, and now we’re in London, which I do want to get to. And so: Here’s everything in between, starting ten days ago.
“When I Graduate from College, Am I Supposed To Get an Apartment or a Job First?“
Kid gets pretty stressed out over customer entry to adulthood
One thousand eight hundred twenty-six of the most momentous days in the history of the world, as experienced by this one kid in Brooklyn
The other day, we were all sitting around and watching videos of a much younger Kina, laughing at her squeaky little voice as she wore headphones and stomped around our apartment dragging a tiny wooden wagon full of blankets, threatening to go to the seashore because I wasn't listening to her.
That video is from April 9, 2020. Kina was three years old, and The Daily Kina—the newspaper you are reading right now—was six days old. Today, she is eight, and this esteemed publication is exactly five years old. If I am correct that I have not missed a single day, then there are one thousand eight hundred and twenty-six (1,826) editions of this periodical expression of one child's life sitting in several archival boxes on a shelf in her room.
Looking through those boxes would show you a change so gradual that you'd barely notice how much Kina was changing. A day is still a day, and one to the next is much the same, on paper as in life. But give it an hour or so—at a minute per issue, say—and you'd see Kina getting more curious, learning to read, trying to express herself, making sense of time. You'd notice me as I stopped calling her “toddler”, as I drew her a bit taller (and with real limbs), as her participation in the tradition of drawing a Sunday Parade tapered off, and then again as she started drawing and writing some of these pages herself. By the time you reached today's edition, some thirty hours later, you'd feel like you watched Kina grow up, but even then you just barely did. You missed the tantrums and the sleeping and the goofy laugh and all the things I forgot to write down and the way she still holds my hand when she crosses the street. I sometimes turn to the paper to figure out when something happened; sometimes it's in the boxes, often it's not. There's so much here. You missed so much.
Publisher understands that even Mommies with expectations are nice
Kina’s helping me paint a lot of these editions lately. Sometimes she makes a little accidental blotch with the paint, and she says, “Sorry! I didn’t mean to!”
I tell her there are no apologies in art. It’s all there for a reason.
Mommy and Daddy shudder as they realize they’ve been doing this for years
What if we have been eating with our mouths open the entire time we have known each other, and the only way we finally found out is because our kid inherited the recessive gene trait of closed-mouth eating?
