• Last night she fell asleep with a book open in front of her, again.
• She can recognize her own name written down.
• This morning as we were getting on the bus, she touched my hair. “Your hair is wet?” “Yeah, from the shower.” She grinned all over and stroked my face so gently. “You all clean!”
• She’s an unbelievably tender kid, always stroking your arm or face or tracing flower patterns on your skin.
• When we were in the emergency room for Claire’s cut head, she sat quietly next to me and kissed my belly. She knew it was a difficult situation, and wanted to help but not be in the way.
• She has taught me that two-year-olds can be tactful.
• I can never do enough good in my life to deserve this blessing.
• It’s all about the possessives. “My mummy!” “My friend Claire!” “My prilly dress! Right? Okay!”
• A recent song:
  

  “My friend Daddy, my friend Daddy, we’re going to Rainbow!
  “My friend Daddy, my friend Daddy, he’s mummy’s, I know.”

• She gives the best kisses.
• She likes soup. “Yay! Soup!”
• Underestimate her at your peril. Her superpowers include mightiness, a will of iron and extreme volume.
• Bebe the hellspawned cat genuinely likes her.
• It’s as if the white lights of Burning Man and Mardi Gras had become a small girl, and walked among us.

I come home from a run to find an audience of toys on the sofa. I join them for the cabaret!

Miss Claire Fitzhardinge, “I like to laugh”

I like to laugh, I like to laugh
because I am a kookaburra!
If you see a laughing bird, that is a kookaburra!
If you see a laughing jaguar, that is a kookaburra jaguar!
If you see a laughing person, that is a person who is funny sometimes.
If you see a laughing oyster, that is a kookaburra oyster!
If you see a flying jaguar, that is an eagle jaguar!
If you see a flying cat, that is an eagle cat!

Miss Julia Fitzhardinge, “I am a princess”

(Sweetly) I am a princess
That is all.

Mr Jeremy Fitzhardinge, “Slugs and winter”

Slugs hate the winter because they get frozen.

(Claire: Not slugs and winter. Sleds and winter.

Jeremy: Oh!)

Mr Jeremy Fitzhardinge, “Sleds and winter”

Sleds don’t like the winter because they have to do all the work.
They like the summer because then they can sit in the shed and think
Mmm, it’s warm!
And when a man gets old and remembers his sled, he says
“Rosebud!”

Entire cast, “Sleds and winter” reprise

Rosebud!
Ro-o-ose bu-u-u-d!
Rose BUUUUUUD!

Curtain.

Claire started school today. Claire started school! She is exactly five years and eight months old. She looked heartbreakingly young in her school uniform. In spite of our extensive discussions before the fact, she was a bit taken aback by the fact that the teachers spoke only Spanish. “But I could work out what they meant, from the pictures,” she explained.

She didn’t immediately make a lifelong friend, which has cast me into massive disarray. What if she ends up a lonely, friendless loser like me? THE SKY WILL FALL. It’s interesting (in a sick way) to notice how deep the roots of my neurosis run. Twenty-three years since I started therapy, five years since I went on the meds and it still only takes a whiff of schoolyard drama to leave me moaning in a fetal position.

Claire, of course, is completely unperturbed.

So much of good parenting involves concealing your baggage under nearby furniture while adopting a fixed grin. Oh! It’s just like voting!

Claire and I were in Santa Cruz, on the beach, reading books. We didn’t think of you once.

Sunshine, high clouds, another gorgeous lazy day in Bernal. I was strolling back from Charlie’s Cafe to Precita Playground with a couple of cafe lattes when I realized it was *Claire* making all that noise. Liz popped up in my field of view to remind me that scalp wounds bleed like crazy, but I was already accelerating toward my screaming kid. Jeremy lifted the blood-stained paper napkin off her head. I took one look at the gaping wound and said “Hospital.”

I lifted her as if she weighed nothing and swept her to the car, Jeremy and Julia scrambling in my wake, saying our hasty goodbyes to Liz, Danny and Ada. We drove the five blocks to St Lukes with Claire howling and my hands white-knuckled on the wheel.

If you have to go to an ER south of Market you should go to St Luke’s; we waited five minutes for the nurse, who rushed us in to see a doctor. I suppose it helps if your five year old girl is awash in her own blood. The doctor was fantastic, very patient with Claire, explaining things to her so she would understand them. He checked her thoroughly for concussion – “Touch your nose. No, not with my hand, with *your* hand!” – and put local anaesthetic on the cut.

Jeremy took Julia home for her nap while Claire and I waited for the anaesthetic to work. We did addition and subtraction and ventured into negative numbers. I told her the story of when I broke my ankle. We played Rock Paper Scissors for a while, then when we got bored added new game options: Dynamite, Cannon, Meteor, Nova, Supernova. What beats Supernova?

Doctor Bell came back and put three neat staples in Claire’s scalp. I looked into her eyes as he was doing it. She was so scared and she had to go through it alone, even if I was there holding her hands. And she faced it, and came through.

“I know what beats supernovas,” I said. “You do.”

And then we went to the library.

I have picked Claire up from the Y. We’re waiting for the 14 Mission bus. Claire is limpeted onto me; her hair keeps blowing up my nose.

Me: Let’s keep loving each other for ever!

Claire (laughing): We’re already doing that!

Jeremy’s wushu school held a demonstration at the Asian Art Museum last night. Wushu is derived from Chinese martial arts; it’s a combination of forms and sparring. The forms are like a beautiful, gymnastic dance. The sparring is scary and exciting, all whirring swords and nunchucks! And it doesn’t hurt that everyone is wearing brightly coloured silk pajamas.

Teacher Philip did his drunken fist routine, where the fighter is pretending to be impaired to Lull the opponent into a False Sense of Security. His wife Zhang Hong Mei, a former Chinese national champion, danced with two swords. She is so fast and strong and graceful that even if you are sitting ten feet away from her you cannot believe your eyes.

The kids were enthralled and inspired. All the way home they were practising their forms.

I went to bed at the girls’ bedtime a couple of nights last week and felt much better. Then of course I ran around like a nutter all weekend. Visited George the horse, of whom more presently, maybe, for cuddles and manure; took the manure to Armistead Maupin Elementary, where I spread it around a pair of fig trees. Worked in the sun to help build the cob bench and got thoroughly sunburned. Claire and another girl were at war with the boys. The boys were a Wookie-Clone alliance, armed with light sabers. Claire and her sidekick fought back with guns. I thought that showed admirable initiative and a sound grasp of tactics.

I took home some squash blossoms and two yellow zucchinis from the school garden, which made me feel all warm and locavorous over having turned horse poo into summer squash. I tried to make squash blossom fritters, which were not especially successful. Then J and I went to the Dark Knight for a date, which was also not very successful. Heath Ledger was brilliant and heartbreaking, but other than that it was just a big shouty film and dumber than most. I walked out ten minutes before the end. Salome and I are going to get the DVD of Brokeback and have a good sob over that.

Sunday I took Claire to her piano class, and she and her teacher played a duet of Beethoven’s Ode to Joy while I grinned until my face split in half and my heart exploded with pride. You could practically tell it was actually Ode to Joy! Claire has been practicing furiously ever since we watched a YouTube of some ten-year-old prodigy playing Chopin. “He’s better than me!” she wailed. “I bet he practices a lot,” I said, and that was it. She played every night for a week.

Seriously great day, the first for a while. Morning playdate with the other Armistead Maupin parents, who are all gorgeous and charming and interested in the same kinds of gossip as I am (this year’s School District lottery having furnished us with way too much material, unfortunately.) Side trip back to Bernal for Claire’s piano class, during which I started a new-to-me Kerry Greenwood that is irresistibly reminiscent of my beloved Sunshine, which if you haven’t read, do! (The book list on the left there is so far out of date that it may never be caught up.)

The playdate went on for satisfying ages, at the end of which I was trembly with hunger and about to fall into that unable-to-decide-what-to-eat state when in the nick of time I remembered El Metate! Alemany works as a handy teleport from Excelsior to darkest Mission, and then there was a parking space (there is never a parking space) and twenty minutes later I was stuffed full of breaded fish tacos and happy as a pig.

When we got home there was a parking space! (There is never a parking space!) And the downstairses were just getting home, so Claire was swallowed up into their entourage and Jeremy and Julia had a nap, and since my services were not required I went to the mailbox and got a chai and cookies from Nervous Dog and dropped over to the Murgisteads to hang. And now I am home, with dinner-makings and a new piece of terrace-knickknackery, and the J’s are awake and the cat is healthy and hydrated and happy. Seriously great day.

Project-based learning isn’t something you impose on kids; it’s the sea in which they swim. With three months of martial arts under her belt, Claire was mad keen to see Kung Fu Panda. So much so that she painted the panda before we went, insisted on dim sum (Aust: yum cha) for dinner, then improvised what she claimed was Chinese-sounding music during piano practice when we got home.

I had some issues with the film. The character setup was trite, especially in the opening scenes – Po wants to do kung fu you say? But his father wants him to take over the noodle shop? Pardon me while I pass out from boredom. Much worse: the other heroes resent the newcomer in their midst and insult him and are mean to him. What kind of worthless fu is that? Looks like no fu at all to me.

(On a somewhat related note, do American filmmakers really not see what they are doing when they have characters run vertically up through the debris of collapsing buildings? Or have frightened crowds flee from walls of dust? It strikes me as profoundly uncool to work out your 9/11-based traumas in such transparent ways.)

I enjoyed the film a bit more when the it managed to partially-subvert the tedious old Chosen One plot. I’m less violently allergic to Chosen Ones than I used to be, now that I have decided we are all allowed to be the Special Predestined Protagonists of our own lives. (Aren’t I generous.) But it’s a dull trope, undemocratic and unfair. I don’t appreciate heroes like Harry Potter, who are all glowy and adorable Just Because. The rest of us have to work for a living! I like stories where the plain people do the needful by dint of hard work and cooperation. Like, uh, LIFE. Or Kurosawa’s The Seven Samurai. Or life.

Julia, meanwhile, is making breathtaking cognitive leaps around language. Her speech is clearer and more precise and nuanced every day, and she is on the brink of understanding the relationship between letters and words. The last couple of days it’s been all about Museum ABC. “D is for dances! E is for eggs!”

You want to know my idea of a hero? Two little girls asleep in the next room. I may still be able to bench-press both of them at once, but trust me: not a force in the ‘verse can stop them.

I miss Cambridge. My commitment to contrariness is the stuff of legend. I particularly miss Grantchester, which is a fairly obvious sublimation of the extent to which I have always missed Grant and Kirsty.

San Francisco, my equal in contrariness, is doing its utmost to win back my affections. On Friday we left the kids with a babysitter and went to the Lumiere to see Werner Herzog’s film Encounters at the End of the World. As we arrived a limo pulled up and a whole bunch of people in fancy dress got out. I regret to say I was quietly sarcastic about this, because they turned out to be the producer/cinematographer and several of the interview subjects.

Encounters is about Antarctica. Unusually for a Antarctic film it was made for no budget under the Artists and Writers program; so there were no minders following Herzog around whitewashing everything, ho ho. This shows, especially in the early scenes, where McMurdo squats on Ross Island like a filthy little mining town, and we spend a good deal of time talking to the service workers who make up 90% of the population.

If you like Kim Stanley Robinson’s novel Antarctica, funded by the same program, you’ll love this film. Herzog likes the same misfit-idealists for the same reasons. And it’s not all righteous social anthropology either. You can’t really point a camera anywhere down there without seeing something unimaginably beautiful and strange. Producer Henry Kaiser is a specialist diver who blasts holes in 20-foot-thick ice with TNT, then swims in the ocean underneath.

The footage from those dives is otherworldly. There are aliens down there.

Encounters may be the best science fiction film I have ever seen.

After the excellent Q&A, Jeremy and I headed out into Russian Hill walking randomly. I wanted to try Petit Robert, although I had no idea where it was. We walked briskly up Polk, under a friendly fog, past wine bars with warm laughter spilling out. It all felt very French and lo, there was Petit Robert. Jeremy had rabbit risotto and I had moules frites. We split a bottle of really delicious pinot blanc, and the dessert came with milk jam, a kind of dulce de leche that catapulted me back to the alfajors my sister used to make by boiling cans of condensed milk, when I was a little girl.

On Saturday we went to Spanish class then drove out to the newly-reopened Warming Hut for sandwiches. I was not-quite-subliminally looking for a place as pretty as Grantchester. Crissy Field is not it; it’s striking but not beautiful. Still, I loved seeing one of the Pier 39 sea lions porpoising along right in front of us.

“Sea monster!” Jules cried joyfully.

We spent the afternoon at the Dyke Rally in Dolores Park. It was too crowded for me, I don’t really like human beings en masse, they are strange, unaccountable chimpanzees. But it was lovely drinking chardonnay with Ian and talking about Europe. We agreed that San Francisco looks and feels like a frontier town compared to Paris or London. Ian says that no one is allowed to build anything in Barcelona until they can prove the new building will be much prettier than the old one.

Today we took both kids to see Wall-E. Jules particularly loved it and was able to follow the plot very closely: “Robot! He has lost his friend. Oh! He has found his friend again!” I cried, because I am a big girly wuss, and also because the dystopian beginning – an Earth of garbage – is much more plausible than the hopeful end. I tend to think the future will look more like McMurdo and less like Grantchester or Oz Farm, but I hope I am very wrong.

Oh! I forgot to mention that a neighbour brought his kid to Martha & Bros this morning. Not his human child. His baby goat. An orphan from the herd he keeps down at the Port of San Francisco. She was adorable and soft, and capered about. A goat in the cafe! Maybe I am wrong!

I can’t remember who gave her the medical kit, but it’s the Best Toy Ever, as Doctor Dog is the Optimal Book.

It goes like this. I recline in an attitude of stoic suffering.

J: You VERY sick.

She puts the thermometer under my tongue. I accept it.

J: Very good!

She feels my forehead with the back of her hand.

J: You RILLY hot.

She gives me an injection.

J: There! All better!

Repeat 11,000 times, cuteness undimmed by repetition. My daughter the doctor!

C: What are the meds for?

R: For the CRAZY.

C: Is that true?

R: Yup.

C: What does the crazy look like?

R: You can’t see it. It’s something you feel.

C: What does it feel like?

R: It feels like the dark.

C: It feels like the duck?

R: No! Like darkness.

C: Like duckness?

The children were perfectly behaved on the flight home; Julia slept on my lap for four hours. The house is much smaller than I remembered. The cat is frenetically overjoyed to see us. Jetlag’s a little bit easier to deal with when you’re flying west and it’s staying up late rather than going to bed early.

I dreamed Veronica Mars had murdered someone and covered it up brilliantly. An odd, depressing dream, set in Oxford.

I’m reading a biography of Rosebery. Little thrills me more than cracking the spine of a new book about a Victorian liberal. Because I am an old coot.

Packed, had coffee at my favourite cafe, walked through Cambridge where these guys were busking; had to stop, arrested by the utter beauty of their singing. Walked to the playground in Jesus Green, where Jeremy met us. Played. Walked home, saying goodbye to the playground, the Green, the ducks, the river, the bridge, the locks, Cambridge. We’ll have to come back, and for longer.

What the trip has taught me: home is my pack now, Jeremy and the girls. We can make a good life for ourselves wherever we happen to be. Makes the future a little less scary. Poor old Michael Finnegan, begin again.

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Originally uploaded by Goop on the lens

…and how was your day?