10 October 2012

by jkatejohnston

(I slept in, so this is stolen from my 2012 Diary.)

Dear Max,

Enzo said, “Girls look better than boys.”


“They just do. But boys make better rock stars.” 

I was thinking about that and about little boy brains and how strange they are and wondering what it will be like when that strange boy mind gets dosed with testosterone, dear god. I wondered if boys need that to become their smartest selves, their whole selves. (Yes, of course they do.)

Girls are so together at Enzo’s age. Some of them seem almost like little grownups (and I don’t mean the ones dressed in slut clothes). Boys are just savage wild beasts, and, frankly, not that bright. 

Of course Enzo’s a genius in his own winning way, but he does have some strange ideas. And if you ever try to play rock-paper-scissors with him he usually chooses gun.


Enzo says I have two mangos in my boobs, and two coconuts in my butt and a watermelon in my tummy. It all sounds like some kind of Polynesian fertility goddess, and I do take issue with the watermelon, but still I love it that he pays attention to me. He ignores us a lot now, shutting his door firmly, sealing off his universe. We knock before entering.


Teresa found out that one of Enzo’s kindergarten classmates has almost the same sperm donor as Enzo. We tried for several months with this one donor, half German, half black, a gardener, but I never got pregnant, so we switched to someone else for good luck. Well, Enzo’s classmate’s donor is from the same sperm bank, half German, half black and a gardener. It has to be the same guy that we started out with. So she’s his almost-accidental-half-sister.

Last night Teresa and I were lying in bed trying to picture Enzo with black people’s hair


Enzo: You’re lucky to have a boy that shoots ice out of his butt. And every other part. And makes an ice slide.