Today, one of the older feminist professors in my department asked me, “How are you? I don’t want to hear about Sophie: tell me about you.”
And I couldn’t think of a single story about me that didn’t also involve Sophie.
Frighteningly, I’ve allowed my daughter to swallow me up.
What can I say about me that’s not about Sophie? It all seems comparatively trivial. Yesterday I resolved to do yoga every day for 30 days, because I’m looking forward to how that makes me feel. Today I realized I’ve finally hit the point in the semester when my classes are starting to gel, when the new crop of students are starting to rise to the challenge of my quirkiness and delight me with their insights. Lately I’m worried about moving to Britain for three months this summer, because what’s going to happen to my carefully-constructed mommie routine? — and there, you see it, I can’t go very long talking about me without talking about Sophie. I think I need to work on changing that.