Almost...

This morning, as Helena and I rocked in the hammock, looking out on the jungle, she glanced at the shirt I was wearing, one with the iconographic image of Che Guevara on it, and gave one of her sounds of exited discovery: "O!"  Then, as she now seems to do with anything she likes (her mother, her stuffed animals, her baby doll), she leaned down to kiss the photo on the shirt.

The dreams of a left-wing philosopher father: one week she recognizes Foucault on a magazine cover, the next an icon of Che... I had a full blog post imagined in only seconds.  When... "Bow, wow!" she said.  And then again.

She didn't see Che on my shirt.  She saw a cute dog.

 The thing about when a baby begins to talk, is that I learn that the thoughts that I had long projected on her... well, she has much more individual things going on in that rapid and active brain.  Among them, puppy dogs more than Latin American revolutionaries.