Today we celebrated Klara’s 17-month birthday at a really chic restaurant.
In Bringing up Bebe, the author admires the idealized French parents whose children can sit through a 5-course meal at an expensive restaurant at the age of 18 months, letting their parents have an adult conversation. Tonight I was all, “Bite it, Druckerman. Our kid is only 17 months, and we are so ahead of you.”
Klara ate my Manhattan seafood chowder and the grilled vegetables with wild rice pilaf from my plate like a serious restaurant goer.
Of course, most of the credit for tonight goes to Klara’s 7-year-old cousin Klubnikis who entertained her throughout the meal.
A group of religious people is outraged that their church isn’t offering a gluten-free version of the Eucharist. These are folks who are supposed to believe that Christ died for them. Yet they are not ready to set aside their consumerism for God even for 20 seconds.
“Our Klara is a traitor to the family philosophy,” I tell N.
“Oh God,” he says, “does she like Pushkin?”
“No, it’s not quite as bad. She loves the swimming pool.”
We are hoping that the preference for the pool over the sea is a temporary stage.
I know somebody who was accused of sexual harassment and subjected to a humiliating “hearing” because to the question of “Which of these post-its do you want?” she (yes, she) responded, “I like the hot pink ones.” Good thing it’s a she. A he might be out of a job as a result.