I sat my baby on the living room stool, in the lace baptismal gown, that my Belle Mere told me her children wore. I believed her, though I haven't seen a photo of any of her children in it.
Sacha was six months old.
Chelsea was three.
French Husband did not have a single grey hair.
And I wondered what my baby boy would be like when he grew up? Would a lace dress make him more an artist than the strong DNA code running in our families for daredevils?
That was nearly 18 years ago.
This is to say that this morning at breakfast while tearing off the end of the baguette and foregoing the burnt cherry jam, I looked at the boy sitting across from me. He was studying for his BAC (graduation finals) I asked him what gift he wanted when he graduated.
Without looking up from his text, he said, "Bungee jump."
I should have read more poetry to that child.
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