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Susannah Leah at Two

 At two years of age, my daughter sings Johnny Mercer and Cole Porter; I guess I'm bragging, but it seems that's not the worst thing in the world.


If you screen Johnny Mercer clips for a child, you find yourself acting as narrator *and* censor; you don't want to say, "Judy Garland just *looks* like she wants to kill herself. Audra McDonald actually *did try* to kill herself...."

I don't want to generalize, but I have a theory about genetics. I believe I am more patient with my son than with my daughter. I believe this is because the things that agitate my son are a set of items sort of foreign to me; I can be patient and curious, during a tantrum, because I don't actually see myself in Joshua's behavior. But Susie is wired exactly the way I am -- and if she is at her worst, I am reminded of aspects of myself that I find difficult. I believe the converse is true for my spouse.

Another weird thing about genetics: There is sometimes a wordless understanding that makes me hold my breath. Recently, I was playing a Megan Hilty album in the kitchen, and I locked eyes with my daughter, and I swear a message went back and forth: This recording is just astoundingly great. I guess Susie won't remember this, but I will.

Yesterday, I saw Rachel McAdams in Are You There, God, and there's a terrific scene where McAdams wants to persuade her daughter to wear socks with her shoes. McAdams understands that she has lost the battle; she knows that blisters are an unpleasant reality Margaret needs to discover for herself. But McAdams can't help but "trot out" the voice of reason one more time, even as she realizes she is being a pill. I thought of any time I've asked Susie to play quietly on her own, or hold her plate on the table, resist the urge to go "airborne": I might as well speak in Swedish. The mistakes need to happen. The bigger my reaction, the bigger the (ensuing) melodrama.

So very happy to have this little weirdo in my life.
















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