Don't tell Isla, but she's wearing pants.
The house we still haven't moved into.
Where we would pee if we did.
Tonight, putting Isla to bed, the breeze was strong enough to send the neighbor’s shutters clattering open and shut. Made me feel like I lived in a western ghost town.
Sometimes I get that feeling as if we’re alone here, even though we are surrounded by people on all sides. The French seem quiet, and private, and these thick stone houses help keep them insulated all the more. Insular. I am amazed, and sometimes alarmed, by how devastatingly quiet it is sometimes. Where on earth is everyone?
Last night Esther had a friend sleep over, and Isla was sleeping on a mattress on the floor of our room. When I went in to bed, I turned on the light, got into my bed and started to try to read the French newspaper. Reading all those incomprehensible, impossible to pronounce French words is very inducive to sleep. I want to sleep just to make it go away.
Before I turned out the light, I looked up and the sight of Isla, sleeping so soundly, on her side, facing me, caught me by surprise. She was so beautiful. She looked posed. Her features were so soft and perfect. Those puffed out still baby lips, the shy, perfectly rounded nose, (Looked just like a two-lane tunnel from my angle.) the dark, long eyelashes that curl up, like fringe, delicately attached to the ends of her translucent eyelids.
All sleeping children are beautiful, I’ve had this same experience with Esther, but what really got me was how much like Ian she looked. She looks like her Daddy, little Isla.
I can’t describe it exactly, but something about the way her narrow face comes to a point at the chin, her forehead, her small mouth, even her eyes. She looks just like the sweet, charming little boy in many of Ian’s baby pictures. She is carrying more than a piece of her daddy with her. And I am glad of that.