Bocce

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Ada has three favorite games. One is Bird Bingo, the second is Hit the Hay, a board game devised by my grandfather, and the third is bocce. She usually wins at all of them, but she is practically unbeatable at bocce. For a three-year-old, she has a remarkably true arm. Her brother can’t throw much farther than his toes, but he is very interested in fetching the balls for further rounds. Good family fun all around.

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And yes, that’s a new dress. Mama made it and can hardly wait to sew another. More details when I can get some better pictures of it.

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Boy

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No longer a baby. Not really. Once you can get up on your two sturdy legs and go places under your own steam, it’s a new phase. (Sniffle.) There’s empowerment happening in other arenas, too. Your sister hogs the train set and grudgingly gives you a single measly boxcar to play with? Bop her over the head with the railroad bridge! She pushes you off the cushion (or “squooshion,” in her charming parlance) she wants to lie on? Pull her hair! Because you are done being a passive infant. You are a boy with ideas of his own now. You are a playmate, not a plaything. Notice has been served.

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This is new, too, this fierce face with manly shouting. I was struck by a sudden vision of Jolyon as a soccer captain commanding his defenders into position for a corner kick. I don’t mean to thrust either of my children into the realm of sport, believe me—I’ll be pleased as punch if my boy would rather be a musician or a thespian or a scientist and never feels a whiff of desire to pound a rival into the mud of the pitch—it’s just that I’ve played competitively myself and the likeness was unmistakable. But oh, he is still sweet and small, too. (And funny. Hello, tongue!)

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The other night he reached for Ada’s hair, paused, fixed me with his roundest and most serious eyes, and deliberately shook his head no. He reached out again and gently stroked her curls. We praised his decision most enthusiastically, and Ada announced, “Jolly IS a good boy! That’s why we chose him.”

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Thanks for choosing us, Pippin. I’ll walk anywhere with you. Although I’m going to miss this view enormously:

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Harvest

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I was in the shower on our first morning home when I heard the thunder of a large African mammal barreling up the stairs. It turned out to be Ada, fizzing with excitement. “I FOUND A ‘NORMOUS CUCUMBER! YOU LIKE TO HOLD IT, MAMA?” I would. Our first cucumber was a prize specimen. Nothing to be done but hastily throw on clothes and go down to see if there were any more. And there were! We ate the first one on the spot. The carrots and beans had doubled their length during our absence, too. (Thanks to our neighbors, who watered them!) There is hardly anything as sure to give you hope for the human race as watching little children goggle at food they’ve grown themselves.

And my mother made Ada’s fabulous birthday dress. I tell you, she is revoltingly talented and she doesn’t even practice. I can’t recall that she ever sewed for me and my brother apart from the Halloween costumes, but boy does she have skills. And maybe she’ll leave a comment to tell us what the pattern is, because I forgot to ask. It has a sweet row of pleats at the neckline that’s just enough detail without being frilly, which Ada definitely isn’t. She loves this dress and so do I. Thanks, Mum!