Kina’s reading skills have improved dramatically this year, in a breathtaking sprint that now has her revisiting the hundred or so books we’ve spent her entire life reading to her. Among those books is my favorite of all time: Where the Wild Things Are.

The first time I mentioned Where the Wild Things Are was in September of 2020, as a mid-page headline on an issue otherwise dedicated to Kina’s “rage tutu”. We have read this book, in the last three years, countless times. I take great joy in reading it to her. Before we had Kina, when I imagined being a dad, the vision I had was of myself reading Where the Wild Things Are to my future kid.

What I did not envision was that she would someday read it to me, as we all sat on the living room floor late in the evening. I did not imagine that I would hear my own child sound out the word “mischief” (of one kind and another). I did not see what it would look like as she turned the pages. Now I know.

This is not technically Kina’s first recital, which occurred inexplicably less than a year ago and yet feels profoundly distant in my memory of the event. This was, however, the first time Kina has had a recital in a place that could not be reasonably called “Sloane’s living room”. It is also the first time Kina has performed as part of a corps de ballet to the accompaniment of the Beach Boys’ classic hit, “Surfer Girl”. Given the musical selection, it was surprising that surfing didn’t play a larger role in the choreography. It is, however, not surprising that I have had “Surfer Girl” in my head for the entire day today.

Brava, prima.

dad

With the annual Dance Parade washed out, Kina turned to her friend Runa for a little day on the town in more sheltered environs.

Learned: Malls just suck for kids—or at least the small number of malls in New York City.

Learned: The kids will nonetheless make their own fun.

The kid has taken up the mantle of house scientist, with a focus in bubble dynamics.

dad

Before I say this, I want to make perfectly clear that nobody should have a child to make themselves feel better; in that general direction can be found countless hours of therapy—for children and their parents both.

HOWEVER:

There is something profoundly comforting about the rush of oxytocin we get from looking at Kina after a hard day. The overwhelming sense of love and adoration, held up next to the adrenaline of conflict or stress, carries with it a strange sense of purpose. Everything takes on greater meaning when you’re hugging a six-year-old; it has to.

I think when people who do not live in New York imagine what it must be like to raise a child here, they have a vision of a reeling anonymity that deprives humans of meaningful community. Those people do not understand neighborhoods.

In the fifteen minutes it took us to walk to dinner at one of our favorite slice joints last night, Kina recognized five people, waving to them offhandedly from across streets, in the middle of intersections, and while perched on a plywood bench eating pizza. Most—but not all—were under the age of eight.

This wasn’t even on a weekend, or on a playground!

If only we had a piazza.

dad

Okay, so, good news: kitty scientists.

(and Dog Bader!)

dad

Kina spent at least twenty minutes yesterday peppering us with Would You Rather scenarios (a confirmation that this is in fact my very own daughter), but all of the options were between something gross and some horrible way to die, which meant that we were continually signing up for things like “living in a vat full of poo forever” or “always eating mustard”. A real grind, but better than the alternative.

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It stands to reason that this critically-esteemed publication would not exist without Kina. It is further true that without her mother, Laurea, Kina would not exist. By the transitive property of progeneration, then, The Daily Kina is really in many ways a story of Laurea.

I try as often as I can to make sure Laurea’s story is told here as much as mine is. (Kina, of course, gets top billing, but she is the publisher and gets that prerogative.) There are many days when I sit down in the morning to write and ask Laurea, “Is there any news?” She never fails to miss a scoop. Because of that, the news you see in these pages is not just told by Laurea but is also a version of Kina’s life through Laurea’s eyes—and in that you see a picture of who Laurea is.

As Kina gets older, we see her mother shining through her in new and exciting ways—when she lays out her clothes in a chic and flat version of herself on the floor, for example, or in defense of her friends on the playground (which makes her parents unspeakably proud to hear about). Kina is undeniably her mother’s daughter—the spitting, sometimes infuriated image.

It feels like Kina has finally gotten over the sting of not being the baby of the family, and she’s willing to admit that this Otis kid has something going for him.

dad

Sometimes the questions get eerie, but it’s also the case that I haven’t really thought about orphanages in a long time, and it gave me something to look up on Wikipedia.

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It’s just mommies all the way back.

dad

Kina asked me to tell her a secret yesterday, explaining that its security was guaranteed by the fact that our dreams wash out all the memories of the day before by the time we wake up. I’m not sure whether this is a great idea or a horrible idea, but it reminds me of one of the ways I coped during the tedium and crisis of the early pandemic: I would wake up each day and pretend that I was a brand-new soul, assigned to David’s body while he slept. I would have all David’s memories and the physiological responses to whatever had happened to him the day before, but I could see the problems of his life from a bit of a distance, knowing that I had just one day to try to make them better—and no particular stake in the matter. This worked surprisingly well, if not for the disposal of unpleasant memories and thoughts, then at least for helping to dissipate their emotional trauma. I like the image of my brain taking out the trauma trash every night, making a tidy little nook to hold the wonder and frustration of a new day.

I didn’t tell Kina the secret, by the way. She’s horrible at keeping them.

dad

Just tearing away all her childhood fantasies, one truth at a time.

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Even for Kina, this was a lot of face painting (most of it done by friends, with eye shadow). I wasn’t even sure we could get it all off by the end of the day, but here we are now, all fresh-faced and having fun.

dad

Pulled reluctantly from her rapt viewing of the coronation yesterday, Kina spent the rest of her Saturday walking around the city with us—a family ritual that long predates her arrival on the scene. Starting from 29th Street, where we ate a lunch of pasta and salad, we made our way to the Madison Square Park playground (with its legendary tire swing), to the base of a statue for some drawing (a couple of excellent portraits and landscapes in pencil and ink), down Broadway to Union Square (where she yelled back and forth with me into one of the city’s only working playground pipe intercoms), down the sidewalks of University Place to Washington Square (where she inquired about the many weed vendors), through the Village to Morgenstern’s Ice Cream (for a scoop of strawberry with sprinkles), across the street to what Kina calls the “Tanuki maze” (a painted labyrinth that is perfect for chasing), and across town for dinner at one of our favorite Thai restaurants.

All of this travel was by foot—to the tune of roughly five miles, eventually. Whose feet? Depends on how closely you were watching.

You could not have planned the first British coronation in over seventy years more appropriately to coincide with Kina’s fascination with gowns, crowns, and assorted regalia. She found a lot of the talking boring, but she gave high marks to the myriad scepters and swords.

God save the Kina!

dad

A real bag of chuckles, this one.

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You want to see those napkins? Enjoy.

dad