Blogger Heather Armstrong (aka Dooce, as if you didn’t know) has a new book coming out, a collection of letters she wrote to her daughter, Leta. I don’t know if I want to have a kid (and oh god, I dreamed I had a baby at a water park last night and it was fucking terrifying), but the writing a book and it meaning something to someone would be the most amazing thing ever. I mean, come on:
Leta saw a copy of it lying on the countertop in the kitchen, picked it up and saw my name on the jacket. “Is this your book?!” she asked, super excited that the explanation she gives to her friends about what I do might actually be the truth.
“It is,” I answered nervously because HOLY SHIT SHE OPENED IT AND STARTED READING.
That day. It arrived.
I watched her carry it over to a chair in the family room, curl up and turn page after page. I didn’t dare breathe, and then when I was about to pass out she finally let out a huge giggle, a laugh that hit me across the room, right in the throat and then it travelled down and filled my lungs. I wrote all those words so that she specifically would read them. And there she was, that whole collection of love letters in her lap, and she was laughing out loud.
She read the book before bed that night, in the car on the way to school the next morning, and then she finished when she got home that afternoon.