I’ve always regretted not keeping a journal. Women and girls usually call it “keeping a diary”; and “diary” of course, refers to diurnal or “daily”.
I had a rather odd conversation in passing with a couple of kids this evening. On my way out of a restaurant there were two little kids struggling to push their way out of a double set of glass doors. The littlest was a boy in a short-sleeve shirt and minus a jacket, 2½-ish by my estimate, using all his strength to open the doors and was about to go out into the chill twilight.
Have you ever worried seeing unsupervised little kids out on the street?
I asked him: “Are you sure you’re supposed to go outside? Where’s your mom?”
I looked around and saw no one nearby except a little girl he was apparently with.
He replied: “Mom said we’re s’posed to go out to the twuck.”
(I remembered how much I enjoyed playing with twucks as a kid.)
I reiterated: “Where’s your mom?”
The little girl said “We have a mom. We have a mommy and a daddy, too. He’s a nice daddy. He gives me knives. I’m five years old.”
Mom finally showed up carrying the boys’ jacket and an armload of food. As they crossed the parking lot and into the night the little girl turned, waved and said happily over her shoulder: “My birthday is in the spring – and it’s Spring!“