The little disgusting mysteries continue in the dark corners of Kina’s little schoolyard.

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The thing is, you know exactly what she means.

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Our publisher sends her best wishes to Matt and Dominique, who got married yesterday as she looked on blissfully. She regrets that they did not twirl each other, but admits there are many years yet for them to twirl.

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When Kina was still barely a year old, she developed a passionate interest in birds and would chase them unsteadily around the playground shouting “BOOD!!! BOOOOOOOO-UUUUURDS!!!”

Years later, in the middle of the pandemic, she built a cordial relationship with a particular pigeon, whom we named Pigeon Friend:

Speaking of birds, we have befriended a shabby-looking pigeon who comes to roost on our fire escape. We recognize him because of his rakish little white underwings, and because he’s utterly imperturbable. Kina talks to him while sitting on our dresser, asking him how he’s doing, and telling him that he can be my (Dad’s) little brother. In return, he stares at her with his beady little orange eyes. They are the best of friends.

Kina has collected many plastic gemstones and random pieces of Laurea’s jewelry collection over the years for the sole purpose of becoming a crystal healer, apparently. She is now in full possession of my life’s savings.

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I don’t know what happened between when I was a kid and today, but in those intervening four decades, we turned leprechauns into the Easter Bunny of St. Patrick’s Day, and I just wasn’t prepared for a generous new character on the holiday calendar. The leprechaun did not bring Kina any money this year, for what it’s worth, nor did we capture any (or even attempt it).

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Our esteemed publisher would like you all to know that she was among the listening angels, unjustly punished for the actions of the rowdy boys. Dismantle the patriarchy.

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Kina got a tummyache at lunch yesterday, and maybe it was because of sesame oil? Hard to say, because I am not a doctor and the nurse is also not a doctor and also it’s hard to say what it feels like to have a tummyache when you are five. Fortunately, I work exclusively at home because of an ongoing pandemic and can walk to her school in under five minutes. While I’m not sure that being there was any more instructive than talking to her on the phone, I was at least able to talk face-to-face with Kina and feel reasonably assured that she wasn’t in anaphylactic shock or anything that was headed in that general direction; I gave her a hug and a kiss and watched her walk back to class with an administrator before heading home uneasily and… hosting a three-hour long online conference session. This is how the universe sets things up for me; I don’t make the rules.

So I basically sat in my bedroom and gesticulated thoughtfully on Zoom for a few hours and panicked privately until Kina returned home and frolicked around as if nothing had ever happened. Apparently her tummyache went away just as soon as she walked into her classroom. Huzzah! I have no idea how much of her little bout of heartburn was directly related to something she ate and how much could be attributed to the stress of talking to grownups about what the tummyache could signify, but the brain-gut feedback loop is strong in me, and I imagine it played at least a small part in her experience yesterday as well.

I was a little bit worried that Kina would develop an aversion to lunch or nurses from the whole experience, so I tried to get ahead of that at dinner last night, but when I asked her what she remembered most about her visit to the school nurse, all she said was, “I thought I saw my friend Andrew’s sister there, and when I asked her if she was Andrew’s sister, she said no.” If that’s all she remembers, it’s a good enough sign, I guess. Sorry, Andrew’s sister. Better luck next time.

I really just asked her to put on her jacket before going downstairs, but now I’m questioning more or less everything about my own judgement.

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Laurea flew off this morning to her first actual in-person event in over two years, and Kina was ambivalent. She’s come to expect us here, most of the time, ever since she was three years old, and since her brain has skipped ahead faster than our work travel has, she’s just now coming to a much sharper understanding of what it means to be away from us. She can feel the difference between a night out (as I had with Futura’s dad recently) and a week away, and she’s keen to know which she’s signed up for when one of us steps out of the door.

Something about this phase of cognitive development seems to have triggered in Kina some fear of uncertainty—in our absence, and in the timing of our return. Today’s second headline is actually a good illustration of this. We told her this morning that her friends are going to start having birthday parties that she can attend without us, and while she seemed copacetic with the broader notion, the whole framing of these parties as “drop-off parties” and not “drop-off-and-pick-up later parties” made her wonder why we’d leave our most precious daughter at some godforsaken trampoline emporium for an indeterminate period of time.

We promised her that we’d come back, when the party was over.

No, Kina, you may not “go down and get a box when you guys are asleep”. You are effectively still a baby and the world is full of vultures. Maybe when you’re in second grade. Maybe.

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I have been doing lots of thinking about best friends lately, because Kina has been talking about best friends, and I’ve been thinking about what best friends cost us. One of the things I don’t think I noticed about growing older was when I stopped mentally ranking my friends—a behavior thrust upon us in childhood and reinforced (for those of us born after 1985) by MySpace. Instead, I find I think about friends for different frames of mind. The justice friend. The jazz friend. The electric bike friend. The friend who understands that part of me that got stoned and listened extensively to Aphex Twin in college. The dad friend. The nihilist friend. All of them meet different parts of me, and I’m grateful for each of them (and the other twenty to fifty of them who have carved out little homes in my mind).

Every day, when I drop Kina off at school, I see the little kids outside their classroom, shuffling around to make time with the person they want most to be associated with. Even at five years old, I see these little girls boxing each other out to preserve their statuses with each other. They are all trying to figure out their best friendships. Kina wants a best friend. And her other friends want best friends. And those relationships aren’t necessarily all symmetrical—though maybe one of the best friends also wants to be Kina’s best friend, for now. I don’t know what it all means, but all the little kids are willing to slag off every other little kid in the universe in favor of their respective best friends.

This feels risky, right?

I wish I could tell you that I was making all these secret clubs up.

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“We found a secret corner of the playground and we took down our masks and Georgia put candy inside because we are not supposed to eat candy but that way Ms. Chelsea wouldn’t see us.”

A continuing series on the evident extreme sneakiness of kindergartners.

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We are a shoes-off household, but the exception proves the rule.

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The worst possible thing is to be told to do exactly the thing you most intend to do, as if it wasn’t already the best idea that you already came up with totally on your own. On this, Kina and I are in complete agreement.

Also, as a reminder: Tree juice is apple juice.

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I somehow forgot to include that Kina and Laurea also stumbled across a parade of astronauts (or was it astronauts in a non-astronaut parade?) in McCarren Park and were given a gift of moon rocks. It was, by all accounts, a bountiful Mommy-Daughter time.

The Cheese Rock is fine.

Kina got a little mad at me today and then did a not-nice thing that led to my putting her in time out, where she stewed silently for five minutes as she awaited her release. The fact that she didn’t scream and weep as I carried her to the room felt novel somehow, as did her seething discontent upon my return.

She kicked around the living room for a few moments, agreeing that she probably should not have spit in my face but not really promising never to spit in my face in the future. She gave me the cold shoulder and then marched to my room, where she buried herself under a blanket (pictured above).

Kina does not like to say that she is sorry. She will do nearly anything to avoid saying the words out loud, which is super irritating to me—the person to whom she most often owes an apology—and I often just push and push for her verbal acknowledgment of having wronged me. I have seen her go as far as mouthing the words while holding her breath, as if to form a regret-shaped die through which sorrow would otherwise be extruded, if only the material were there.

Publisher wanted to take the reins today.

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It’s hard to tell the difference between a dream dreamt by a five-year-old girl and a dream invented by a five-year-old girl. Either way, the things that happen in her brain are far better than anything in my own (or outside it, for that matter).

The joke in this headline, apparent only to the most diligent of long-time readers, is that this publication suspected Kina of rampant dream fabrication over a year ago and has spent the last twelve months digging.

I take my callbacks whenever I can get them.

By far the most salacious news about Kina’s development as a kindergartner was that she has been running an underground art club at quiet time. Her co-conspirators vary by day, but membership in the club appears to be widespread. When I asked Kina what they made in art club, she replied, “Hearts. Just hearts.”

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Let’s all take a trip on the bedtime blimp tonight, shall we? There are cozy pillows and a personal concierge. You have a cabin to yourself and your choice of jammies. The flight will continue until you drift off to sleep, when you will be tucked into bed with all your favorite stuffies. Let’s make this a trip you take every night, okay? Your ticket will always be waiting at the desk, and the flight attendant will always be astonished to find out how important you are. And you are always, always very important.

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Hello to little Julia from Weehawken, whose Ukrainian parents drove her into the East Village to be close to their community after what has been an awful week. We hope you enjoyed your time on the playground with Kina, and we hope your parents get some sleep soon; you all deserve it. Everybody deserves to play all day and sleep in peace.

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After seven long weeks at the strangest Olympics he has ever witnessed, Kina’s beloved uncle Ken has returned to the country from China, in possession of big hugs and a collectible panda stuffie. We are pleased to report that Kina is thrilled.

I learned in the minutes following yesterday’s delivery that the New York Times (which recent readers will remember is my second workplace) featured another piece on how (and whether) to talk to kids about war. While there are numerous ways to offer financial support to organizations on the ground in Ukraine, you may be interested in donating to Voices of Children, which offers psychological counseling and support for traumatized children there. Finally, I would be remiss if I did not point out that countless societies and their children have been living under occupation (by our own country, at times) and war since time immemorial; this particular crisis calls our attention to imperialism everywhere, and the children who must survive it.

This apartment is perfect, but it is gonna need a second bathroom if this family hopes to stay together.

Back in the distraction game for the day, which I think I definitely need, but I want to thank a bunch of you for sending notes in response to yesterday’s newsletter. I have found surprisingly little out there on the topic of speaking to smaller kids about war (and still plan not to mention it to Kina), but there is this piece in The Independent1 that suggests a few criteria for whether or not to bring it up proactively with your child—their age (eight years old or older being the guideline from the article), your family’s proximity to the conflict, and the chance that they will hear about the war elsewhere. As with all parenting-related topics, this seems as much a matter for judgement as anything else, but for a kid like Kina—too young to process this, and fortunately not affected personally by the invasion of Ukraine—we are likely to absorb the news on her behalf, keep her safe, and continue to advocate for peace and the protection of children everywhere from military conflict.

In 1986, I was laying in my room, looking at the ceiling, and worrying about nuclear war. This was before the fall of the Berlin Wall, and the leaders of the United States and the Soviet Union were still on the cusp of the Reykjavík Summit and slowly testing the reduction in tensions around the Cold War. I don’t know why I was worried about nuclear war in 1986, other than that I was twelve years old and suddenly aware of what the ramifications of what a war—Cold or otherwise—could be for me. I remember my mom coming into the room, and I remember talking to her about it, but I do not remember what she said, and I wish I could remember now, because I have no idea what I will tell Kina when she becomes suddenly aware of the terrifying prospects of geopolitical conflict.

In the last day, I’ve had to really wrestle with what I should and shouldn’t talk about in front of Kina. The invasion of Ukraine is scary and senseless, and it brings back lots of memories from the 1980s and my childhood—The Day After, War Games, the general threat of bombs and Reaganomics and the faceless threat of Socialism (on which I now have a totally different perspective!) Laurea and I talk around corners from Kina as she eats Pirate’s Booty, waiting until she goes to bed before starting our doomscrolling. I spend a lot of time thinking about what I will say when Kina picks up on the fact that a land war in Europe has unfolded. She understands countries, but not conflict. Cuisines, but not governments. Languages, but not territories.

How do I back into the idea of “war”? Of armies? Of history? Of the Soviet Union? Of Stalin? Of men who like to compare themselves favorably with Stalin? Of imperialism? Of fighter jets? Of missiles? Of “civilians”?

I hope that this revelation about Kina and her soft spot for shy girls is marginally soothing after a deeply disturbing geopolitical day. I’d tell you to worry about yourself, but adults have to do the worrying so the kids can enjoy the wind. I’m sorry that you have to worry, if you’re worrying. Let’s do this again tomorrow.

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I don’t think I know what camp is anymore, but Kina is at one all week long in a building around the corner and seems to be enjoying the parkour bits and the fact that we send her there with a thermos full of hot pasta.

I think we are supposed to be skiing right now? I suppose I might be fine with parkour.

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Kina is maybe even shorter than Ollie, who is one year younger than her, but she is still the big girl in her own mind—and, to some extent, Ollie’s. (Lulu accepts Kina’s status as the big girl, which is clearly gratifying to Kina.)

While we have your attention, our publisher would like to offer a clarification to our early morning edition: Yes, Kina was taking Ollie and Lulu to pizza, but for our benefit, not Ollie’s. We hope this detail helps your understanding of the news of the day.

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It is extremely charming to see Kina being so protective of her newborn cousin, especially when he is surrounded only but people who love him dearly. Good practice for when she will need to scare off bullies after school when she’s a teenager and he’s just finding his middle school legs. New Yorkers protect New Yorkers, cousins get cousins.

He is a little stinker, though, and faintly savory, in the best way.

Editor’s Note: I am thinking that this is maybe my favorite masthead ever? Kina really went to town on the garden and the giant green bouffant. It is a masterpiece. Note the echoed flower in the Xtina piece, which she also illustrated.

Kina and I both feel that we have collectively been sold a bill of goods regarding the shiftiness of crows and the corresponding necessity of scarecrows. She is, like many of us, not even confident that the scarecrows are scary. I reassured her that the crows are safe and seemingly unperturbed, but that daddies are deeply skeptical of our straw-stuffed friends. “Scaredaddies”, maybe, but leave our clever crow friends be.

Another garden! Mommy painted the bougainvillea here, and Kina painted all the gourds and the vast, clear sky. Thanks to Sloanie for the paint this week!

Only mommy likes the cold plunge, and she deserved hers last night while Kina and I had a little rigatoni date at home.

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It’s all sweet for this kid on Friday, as she prepares for the long weekend. May your weekends be half as squeezy.

Happy birthday, Kina’s grandma!

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Little kid who couldn’t get dropped off at school in her three-year-old class has come a long way. A real mentor, this one.

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Seems like every morning, that snuggle machine is broken again. I’ve had to buy several snuggle permits at considerable expense, and I wish I’d just bought the more reliable model in the first place. Serves me right.

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If I had one tenth the certainty about my life that this child has about her own, they would write articles in business magazines about my “ferocious determination”, which is exactly how I would describe Kina’s attitude about most everything she encounters. May she retain every ounce of that, and god grant me the strength to meet her.

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The editorial board admits that our publisher is not in fact a world-recognized mathematical savant yet, but she will always be ❤️the editorial board’s snuggly little genius❤️ and Daddy will work on explaining fractals to her in the meantime.

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Many books and blog posts have been written about the sentimental moment in which a child expresses their desire to live forever with their parents, and so I will not add to the stack here, but it is worth noting that we have been hugging Kina extra hard today, despite her promise to live in our house with us for all eternity.

It was Laurea’s idea to make a Parade all about braids, but then Kina said she was drawing them all wrong and just took over, putting an enormous braid frame around a neon-tinged portrait of, well, herself.

The headline I did not go with, but which ran a close second, was: “Watch Ken! I’m going potty!”

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After months of trying to convince Kina to let her father participate in nightly bath and bedtime rituals, I came up with the brilliant idea to impersonate the only person in Kina’s life whom she unconditionally idolizes—her stylist, Christina. Now, for nearly a week, she has demanded baths “from Christina”, to have her hair brushed “by Christina”, and to brush her teeth “with Christina”.

There is no meaningful transformation involved in this charade—I mostly speak in a considerate and quiet voice, asking Kina loads of probing questions about her family and classmates. The effect is as calming for me as it is for her, and baths have gone on without a hitch for both of us.

While I am pleased with the improvement this has made in the balance of my parenting responsibilities with Laurea, it has had an even more appreciable effect on the gossip I get from my child, because as everybody knows, you tell all your best secrets to your stylist.

Just so you know, my lasagna is unstoppable.

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I don’t know what we won, but this girl is taking a bath no matter what.

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I cannot muster the energy to tilt at the windmills of stalled climate mediation and the idea that my daughter thinks it’s reasonable for it to be in the 40s in early February, having never really known anything else, and so I will point out that she was more bothered this morning by the realization that my illustrations of triangle and rectangle people in this newspaper never have noses. Some emergencies are as plain as the nose on your face, as it turns out.

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We have entered the beautiful phase of Kina’s sartorial self-sufficiency in which we can walk away for twenty minutes and return to find her fully dressed in something other than an Elsa costume. Yesterday’s fit was so crispy, and her vibe so moody, that I couldn’t figure out how to catch it in washable markers—so you are all now witness to the first actual photo in an edition of The Daily Kina.

A landmark day for fashion journalism!

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We seem to have miscalculated the date on which the streets of Manhattan’s Chinatown teem with lions, all trailed by drummers as they threaten local business owners and bat their eyelids coquettishly in celebration of Lunar New Year. We had hoped to catch a glimpse of some of these lions at a distance yesterday, and Kina invited her friends Futura and Spencer, each of whom had built up their expectations for over a week and were wound tightly as we arrived on Mott Street, where we bought confetti cannons and prepared for the hunt.

Alas, it was cold and also the wrong day. One crew of lions had visited a few businesses in East Chinatown earlier in the day, and when we spotted their furry heads and the young dancers who wear them as they walked briskly towards their cars, we asked if any lions remained in the wild. They offered that while it was too cold to dance, the next weekend would probably be a better day for lions. Children wept.

Having spent our confetti cannons and missed the lions, then, we all decamped to get some ice cream and buy tiger-themed decorations for our doors, which lifted spirits considerably. I gave all the kids red envelopes to fund their new year endeavors and promised to let them know if I spotted any big cats.

I am now so used to taking Kina to the testing facility to find out that whatever random one-day virus she’s caught is not Covid that it has become our little start-of-the-month game. March out into the rain and get your nose swabbed—it’s February.

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In which our protagonists go for a walk in the rain for yet another Covid test that is once again negative, and Daddy has to carry the little frog umbrella because Kina wants the rainbow one. Random FedEx driver was amused.

Not pictured: Daddy carrying Kina on shoulders most of the way because “this umbrella is too heavy.”

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This morning, I asked Kina if she remembered a little food hall in our neighborhood. We used to go there to eat pierogies and play skee-ball when she was just old enough to eat pierogies and still too young to play skee-ball. There was a chalkboard wall that Kina would scribble on while we finished our food, and one of her favorite singalong artists would play there from time to time. It was a crowded little indoor space that was a perfect winter dinner refuge, back when you could find effortless refuge.

That food hall closed sometime in the last two years, one stall at a time and then all at once. I hadn’t set foot in there since a couple months before the pandemic, in the same way that I hadn’t set foot in most New York City restaurants in the months before the pandemic; I didn’t think to.

I have a video of Kina on my phone, in fact, from the last time I went to that food hall—on Halloween in 2019 . She and her friend Niki are sitting on a decorative bale of hay at the entrance of the food hall eating some of their hard-won candy. Kina is dressed as a witch and making a face as she realizes that the lollipop she’s just licked is a pickle lollipop. “It’s soury,” she says. She is not even three years old yet.

Have I told you the story of how my mother, in a parent-teacher conference, heard that I was not eating my cafeteria lunch at school, and how she took it upon herself to cater to my picky-eater nonsense by sending me to school with a thermos full of hot ravioli or macaroni and cheese every day for at least four years (I honestly cannot remember), which affirmed my disgust reflex for countless foods—cold sandwiches, salads, cole slaw, vinegar, pickles, unmelted cheese, and all condiments among them—for the next thirty years of my life? I am endlessly grateful to her for those lunches, but Kina is going to eat the cafeteria food, I’m sorry.

She can have the yogurt raisins, though. Fair trade.

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The Daily Kina wishes you a very happy Lunar New Year and the strength of conviction to shake your own destiny.

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