manipulated
either he reads my blog or he feels a bit maudlin because he has daughters of his own. someone just sent me this email:
And you, trouble? I can't believe that. Here's what I'd guess your mother thinks about you.
Where are you going my little one, little one,
Where are you going my baby my own?
Turn around and you're two, turn around and you're four,
Turn around and you're a young girl going out of the door.
Turn around, turn around, turn around and you're a young girl
Going out of the door.
Where are you going, my little one, little one?
Little dirndels and petticoats, where have they gone?
Turn around and you're tiny, turn around and you're grown,
Turn around and you're a woman, with babes of your own.
Turn around, turn around, turn around and you're a woman
With babes of your own.
("Turn Around," Harry Belafonte, 1959)
ack. lump in throat. i'm so glad i don't have a daughter or i'd be bawling.
see what i mean?