the sen­ti­ment of a birthday

Home from York for Avery’s 11th birth­day. John stayed home with a nasty fever, the kind that makes you (him) run for a cab when he’s let us go off on our own, only to be glad lat­er on that one did­n’t come and he could stay in bed and sleep it off.

I’ve spent the late evening read­ing one of those things that if you knew what you were get­ting into you would­n’t read on your child’s birth­day, and yet some­thing you admire so much you know you’ll be order­ing many copies for every­one you know. Adam Gop­nik knows way too much about the pre­cious­ness of a New York child­hood (part of his book, A Home in New York: Through the Chil­dren’s Gate, being post Sep­tem­ber 11th). All I could do after sob­bing a bit was to creep into Avery’s room and absolute­ly savor the sight of her sleep­ing sound­ly, shoul­ders humped away from her beloved best friend Anna, who was clutch­ing a stuffed pony in her arms (a guest sleep­over object, what­ev­er she had brought being hid­den under the cov­ers), and echo Adam’s thoughts: just let them stay this age, let them stay lit­tle, in my house, under my wing. And know­ing it’s so far from reality.

Hap­py Birth­day, Avery.