It was 90 degrees in Brooklyn today, and while the scuttlebutt on the playground was that the water-spurting turtles were on, they were dry as a bone by the time Kina arrived at the scene. A climate reminder: It is not yet halfway through April.

For a little more context on the turtles, and the equity of water features in New York City, a couple prior editions for you to peruse on your fire escapes, or with your face firmly planted in front of a dusty box fan in the window:

Purple is compassion, or calm. Red is mad. Green is happy.

dad

We never plan for spring break in this house, so it’s fake school all week here at the Daily Kina.

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Being six means being the kind of person who actually questions whether or not the sky is quite as empty as we believe it to be.

dad

We had expected more of a huntable egg hunt than what the Isle of Governors laid out for Kina and a few hundred of her closest five-to-eight-year-old friends yesterday. Instead, a field strewn with gaily-painted wooden eggs was penned in by yellow nylon twine, sheltered from the hungry pawing of the massed crowd. A lone person in a creepy easter bunny outfit roamed the edges of the field, like a monarch before their troops, urging them into greater frenzies.

As the hour of the battle neared, the children pressed in against the rope inch by inch, until a few pink eggs slid into arms’ reach; the marauders swept them up in silence while the referees were otherwise distracted. “Take three big steps backwards,” said one of the adults, and the children relented, even as their little hands clutched the rope.

And then, suddenly, the clock struck eleven, and the border was breached. The children on the southern front, with Kina, rushed in screaming, yanking the eggs from the grass and tossing them into the baskets at their hips. Kina fell to her knees in a cluster of pink eggs, sweeping great numbers of them into her pail as the thunder of footsteps echoed around her.

Today’s stop in the longest thing on earth: Governor’s Island (aka Staten Island, aka Long Island), our little pop-up newsroom.

dad

Start spreading the news etc etc

dad

Laurea and I are now well trained in recognizing the sound of Kina hitting the floor of her room at 6:30 AM. One can only imagine what it is like to live underneath her. Sorry, neighbor.

dad

I don’t know how it’s taken me three years to enter my cubist period.

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It’s not clear to this reporter who was really getting the most satisfaction from the nightly bath—the bather or the bathing assistant.

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Dear Kina,

The illustration at the top left of the page here is of the two of us, in 2020, drawing the first Daily Kina. You were three years old. If this newspaper were a person, it would be three now. That makes you six. You're good at math; you knew that.

The thing I've been thinking for the last few weeks is that I really don't know what three years feels like, and I don't think I'd ever fully considered it before—I've never stared squarely at that period of time. Until this very moment, three years didn't ever feel like a long time. It was shorter than most of the jobs I'd ever held, shorter than high school, shorter than a presidential administration.

Tomorrow is the third anniversary of this legacy media institution—don’t forget!—but this weekend was Top Spring, and we all know that Top Spring comes (like Daily Kina Day) but once a year. Kina made the most of it, as you can see. Boing crew and all.

Kina Oven Hands—for those who pay attention to the daily portrait—is the version of Kina I had to wrangle this morning as I finished the Sunday edition. She was a real charmer, and well-insulated from hot ovens.

A brief note before I begin: Monday is the third anniversary of the Daily Kina, and I’d like to invite you all to send over little mastheads, portraits, or headlines of your own in celebration of this auspicious occasion, which I will be pleased to share here. Thanks to all of you who find this newspaper a fulfilling daily ritual. We think of you often. Okay, let’s go:

There are seven and a half months every calendar year in which Kina and her oldest, dearest friend are the same age. That period has at last begun again, now that both of them are six.

You can help protect the Brooklyn Public Library from cuts by sending a note to your city council member and Mayor Adams, who—in addition to further reductions in education spending—has proposed vast cuts to services and hours in the public library systems of New York City in the upcoming budget, even as the NYPD blows through its half-billion dollar overtime allocation for fiscal year 2023. Libraries have consistently demonstrated their value to this city as safe and equitable spaces for New Yorkers of all ages. They support our citizens for a fraction of the cost of the carceral negligence our tax dollars otherwise fund. A library card is a powerful statement; bear it with pride.

dad

Just kidding—the grievances come more frequently than once a year.

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When she got home from the playground, she lifted them gently out of her pocket and lined them up perfectly on the coffee table, one by one, clearing everything else away, and then ran to get hair ties.

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It’s kind of just ingredients all the way down, isn’t it?

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Hat trick!

dad

It was too nice outside today, so I brought some construction paper to the playground and drew today’s edition as Kina bubbled around with her chums. This was a delightful distraction for her after a day of worrying about the random daddy longlegs she found in her toy bin whilst sorting yesterday. As I tried to gently nudge it out of her bedroom, Kina drew a little dance floor for it, which seemed to distract it for long enough to let Kina escape.

Life’s weird.

Says Kina after breakfast in response to an inquiry about the best way to spend this rainy day: “Let’s sort the toys.”

dad