Posts Tagged ‘Georgia Grace’

A little off the top

March 10th, 2009    -    9 Comments


I am working on a long post which probably won’t be half as revealing or uplifting as this one, courtesy of Georgia:

OK, so there’s this contest at school called WordMasters and you fill out this paper and turn it in. So today at lunch I see my friend M and run over to her and start to hug her, then these two girls in her class come over to me saying that I won the contest and I got excited, so I went over to my friend C and told her what they said but I wasn’t quite sure if I believed them. Then C and I went on the bars and told JL, H, and JG. They got so excited that they picked me up. Then we went inside and I got a paper that said: Congratulations! Your child, Georgia Miller, will receive recognition in the next Spotlight Assembly for their achievement in the WordMasters Meet. Grade: 3 Award: First Place!!!

Oh and I also got my bangs cut.

Grace in acceptance

February 23rd, 2009    -    1 Comment


The first time to watch the Academy Awards is overwhelming for any young girl, especially an aspiring actress. We carried her crying to bed, her heart overcome with imaginary acceptance.

Mom, do you know what would be nice? If they gave the ones who came in second at least a medal.

The one who comes in first, of course, gets a shampoo bottle.

Aha moments

February 18th, 2009    -    9 Comments



Hey mom, I have an idea to make money.

What’s that?

Let’s invent medicine that really works.

Why hasn’t anybody thought of that?

And that tastes good!

***

Mom, you know what worries me every time I fly?

What’s that?

You know when they say in the event of an emergency landing do not take your personal belongings?

I’ve heard that.

What if I’m carrying my American Girl doll?

We’d get you another one.

Just checking. That’s what Dad said too.

***

Mom, I’m worried about some of the kids in my class.

Why’s that?

Well, they are in third grade already.

Yes they are.

And if they don’t know anything by now how will they ever graduate from high school?

***

Mom, I feel sorry for God, you know why?

Why?

Because he has to create like a billion, million jillion fingerprints.

The call of the child

February 3rd, 2009    -    13 Comments

Update:
Georgia has sold enough cookies to win the license plate, beach towel and Love Your World t-shirt, which says it all.

In case you don’t have a barefoot scooter-propelled cookie impresario on your block, you can borrow mine.

Does anyone want to buy at least 8 boxes of Girl Scout cookies to be shipped to their home or office? (Are there even any offices left in this country?)

My daughter Georgia will sell on credit, being the only solvent lender left on this planet, and pay for postage, because these days a good customer is that valuable, and the product is, well, a mint.

As economists predicted, the pedaling on our street this year is uphill. What can I say? It’s the money.

For this year’s selection of tantalizingly classic confections, look in the cookie cupboard. (But you might want to overlook the price, $4 per box.)

Her goal is to sell enough to win a personalized license plate for her scooter. The kind that costs $5 and requires her to sell $600 worth of cookies. What can I say? It’s not the money.

The sale ends this Saturday. Your regrets won’t arrive for a month. But when they do arrive, they are guaranteed not to last!

The Malia chronicles

January 22nd, 2009    -    12 Comments

Dear Malia,
My name is Georgia Miller. I’m 9 and from California. I watched your Inauguration at school today. What is it like at the White House? What I really want to know is if you want to be pen pals. I would love it if we could but it’s ok if you don’t want to. I hope to get a letter from you!

When my sisters and I were really little, we were lovestruck by our handsome president and wished that we could be his darling princess daughter. Then came the teen throbs of Lynda Bird and Luci to moon over. I understand what we have going on now in our house. I understand it completely.

It’s Malia time all the time.

First, she wrote and mailed this letter. Then she decided to name the lead character in the story she’s writing “Malia.” Then she wrote a one-act play last night after dinner about a girl named Malia, age 9, doing her homework.

Malia: Ugh! More homework! I’m already on my third page!

It’s not a pure love, you see, because romantic love never is. It’s subtly and insidiously self-serving. “You see,” she says bright-eyed, “I think everyone will be writing to President Obama and Malia won’t get any letters. Mine might be the first! And if we become pen pals then she might invite me to the White House.”

Later on she asked her dad if he might ever run for president. She’s scrambling to cover all the routes of admission, you see, since she’s heard there are 132 rooms in the building, a movie theater, a bowling alley and the Jonas Brothers.

Last night I tried to coach her (my mistake) through an intense monologue she’s doing in her theater class. “Say it with the kind of feeling you have for Malia,” I offered, intending to stir up passion and enthusiasm.

“You mean, like I’m jealous?”

***

All that aside, click here to see why I no longer worry how she gets her feet wet.

When girls collide

January 14th, 2009    -    6 Comments

When your daughter’s new doll is 18 inches tall, and your new daughter was 16 inches tall, the brief span of Daddy’s Girl fits entirely around the length of an American Girl. Are they one or are they two?

(Mommy saved her baby clothes, and her baby didn’t save a trace.)



The next bubble to burst

January 5th, 2009    -    12 Comments


“Although we can expect small-business failure rates to increase over the coming months, the entrepreneurial spirit is still alive and well.”

– Dr. Jeff Cornwall
The Entrepreneurial Mind


Pup Sudz

The ULTAMATE doggie
grooming center!
Make the dog look good!
small dogz: $5
medium dogz: $10
large dogz: $15
*
Jan 4 (only)

We don’t take credit cards!!!
_______

Opening/Closing day customer count: One, her own dog, who doesn’t count.

“Mommy, no one ever comes to these things, no one ever wants to come to these things, and they don’t even care how hard we try!”

–Georgia Miller, age 9, The Entrepreneurial Mine

Christmas past

December 25th, 2008    -    6 Comments

Dear Georgia,
Thank you for the delicious cookies! (And Rudolph and the team loved the oats!)

You were very good this year and you are one of my favorite good girls in the land of California.

I think you’ll like the gifts I brought you, and it was super sweet of you to ask for a gift for your father, but all the Nintendo DS Lites up here are for boys and girls. Please tell him to try Circuit City or Best Buy. And hurry.

Love, Santa

I kid you not

December 21st, 2008    -    10 Comments

Stop dwelling on passing days, months and years.
Look with delight in the undergrowth
where chrysanthemums bloom.

– Dogen Zenji

When I tell you that this ancient practice comes alive in my home, you as yet may not believe me. You may not yet believe yourself, or trust your own home.

This is how it flowers. This is how it is. This is how it has always been.

Deep love and appreciation for you on these holidays and everyday. Be of good cheer. Your life is in bloom. Just look.

The Miller Family

Out of the mists

December 7th, 2008    -    10 Comments

My girl was a big girl, her own girl, with her own loves and life. I was a spectator, but the show was splendid and I still had the best seat in the house.

By my reckoning, I wrote those words nearly eight years ago, they were published nearly three years ago, and last night they came true in the most absolute and unpredictable way. I watched my daughter debut on a theater stage, feet steady, eyes blazing, cheeks glowing, her own girl, in her own life, from my seat in the full house. I’m filled with awe, not so much with her particular drama, but with the wonder of life itself. Do we write this life? Do we conjure out of scribbled ink and poetic image the very future we inhabit?

We must! We must!

Who is this girl, I wonder? Where does she come from and where will she go?

Is she the baby at twelve months, the fickle birthday girl whose sudden flare of independence inspired the tearful flow of the original words? Is she the sweetheart at two, and three, and four, who dressed herself in an everyday wardrobe of feather wings and glitter crowns? Is she the girl of eight, who cast herself in the real-life leading role of a fantasy come true?

She is all and none of those girls, and most of all this. She is the one who moves in and out of the mists, as we all move in and out of the mists, to appear live and on-stage in the pure light of the briefest moment of recognition.

Oh my heaven, my goodness, do you see it? Do you see it? When we do, when we open our eyes to see the show, there is only one thing to do. There is only ever one thing to do, and without the hesitation of a second thought.

Applaud! Applaud!

Out of the mists of The Huntington Gardens.

Dear friends, my best friends, my full house, appreciate your life.

A little something under the tree

December 5th, 2008    -    10 Comments

Dear Santa,
For Christmas I would like an American Girl doll that looks like me. Here are other things that I would like: Puppy, iPhone, and an adopted sister.

(And a whole lot more that I forgot.)

Love,
Georgia Miller

Editor’s Note: 1 out of 4 and a new pair of socks.

One step to normal

October 14th, 2008    -    8 Comments


When girls turn 9 quite a bit begins to change and you may no longer see so intimately eye to eye. Then you realize they’ve been waiting all their lives to have the high ground under their feet.

Me: You are growing so much! (With poorly masked dismay over the rapidly outgrown clothes, the discarded toys and the little girl lost.)

Her: Maybe that means I’ll be a normal-sized person some day!

***
I don’t have to tell you that she already fills the sky and outshines the sun, but normal is good enough too. Normal will do.

Opening the box of my heart

September 26th, 2008    -    26 Comments

A letter to my daughter on my birthday.

My dear heart,
It is customary in these parts to post letters of reflection on our children’s birthdays. But at my age and altitude, a birthday is everyone’s birthday and I can no longer split the difference.

There were stirrings that something was up with you of late. A scurry and hush as I walked into your room. The scattered remnants of things cut out, disassembled, refashioned. You assured me that I would love the present you were making for me, if only I could wait.

This was new for you. Not new to make something, no that isn’t new. But to make and keep a secret of your own. To guard yourself so well and to let excitement crest in your own sturdy chest.

In the morning I came into the kitchen and found the surprise you had snuck overnight onto the center of the table, mimicking every birthday of your own, starting the party at dawn, because not one moment of a day so long awaited can be wasted.

I found a box.

Inscribed with the curious glyphs of a language you now own:

Decorated with pictures of your friends and family, the people and the places you inhabit with and without me:

Labeled emphatically with the contents, the contents that cannot be named or contained:

Opening it, I already know that everything is inside.

I love my life.

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