How To Have A Sleepover (by Girlish)

This is an easy one. Girlish, like someone else in the family, feels compelled to write down many things: poetry, letters to friends and family, rules for her toys, party invitations, and all other sorts of plans and ideas. The other day, I found what follows in a stack of her papers on the kitchen table. If I had a scanner I’d scan it in, but I don’t, so I’ll just type it verbatim.

[*many hand-drawn stars, one sun, and one moon*]

How To Have A SLEEPOVER

***

12 hours

Well at first, you have to get everything ready. Spare sleeping bads bags, refrestments,

games, ect. Second you wait to see who arrives first at your house. When the first pers

person arrives you kinda tell them whats it is going to be like. Third every one else

everyone else arrives start playing games and then have a pillow fight. Once you have

setteled down the games start getting ready to go to bed. If your parents let you have a

huge midnight-feast in on a picnic blanket blanket in YOUR ROOM. Well here’s some ideas

for the midnight-feast. At first you get P penu peanutbutter and jam sandwiches (or turkey

or ham sandwiches.) and then have some desserts.

So now you know.

Reprinted with the author’s full knowledge and permission.

All Smiles

After school. And she made a friend, but as predicted, not the assigned one.

First Day of School

And so, so excited. She loves school, like her mama did, but she’s shy in new situations, which her mama never was. She’s there now and although I’m sure it’s going well, I’m nervous. We were escorted to her classroom after the bell rang (the Head Teacher takes an actual bell down the playground and rings it), so that we could meet her classroom teacher and see where her room is. She has a male teacher again this year, and he was calling roll and asking the children whether they’re having “school dinner” or “packed lunch.” He asked Girlish as she walked in the room, and she was a bit confused about how she was supposed to answer, so she said, “School dinner,” so quietly he had to ask her again. I fought down the urge, first to answer for her, and then, to sneak up to her seat and give her a little pep-talk. As he went down the roll after her, we learned that the standard roll-call exchange actually goes like this:

“Johnny Whitsteed?”

“Good morning, Mr. Guy. School dinner, please,” or, “Good morning, Mr. Guy. Packed lunch, please.”

The British are really rather proper compared to, “Here,” which is what I used to say when they called my name. And please? Please.

Then Mr. Guy assigned Girlish a “friend for the day,” so hopefully that will go well. I mean, we walked back by the front office with the assigned friend and Girlish to drop off the class roll, and although she didn’t say a word to any of us, I’m sure she was just feeling shy, like Girlish was herself. I keep thinking about it though, wishing he could’ve assigned her a more talkative friend. But I didn’t go back to the room to suggest that. That would be inappropriate–even I know that. I wouldn’t want to hurt that rude little girl’s feelings, right? Maybe that’s the just the British way, to not say a word to your assigned friend.

Sigh. It feels like a long time until 3:15.

The Eff Word

The crosswalks here have a little barricade in the middle of the street, where you can stop for a moment to let traffic pass. Pedestrians have the right-of-way, and cars are supposed to stop and let you cross the moment you set foot in the street.

This morning, on our way back from our “practice walk” to Girlish’s school, we—that’s me, the buggy with Babe-ish in it, Girlish, and Boyish—stood in the crosswalk, in the middle of the street, while one, two, three, FOUR cars passed without stopping right in front of our toes. I finally sort of stepped out in front of one, muttering, “What the fuck? You’re supposed to stop!”

As we safely reached the curb, Girlish said, “That’s the word in the song I was telling you about? On Lunchboxing?”

“Lunchboxing” is a mix-CD made for us by a friend. Girlish loves it, except for the f-word song, which she skips.

“Right,” I said. “The f-word.”

“Is that your favorite word?”

“No, it’s not my favorite word.” (I don’t say it that much, I swear.) “But when four cars go by leaving me trapped in the middle of the street with three small children, I might say, ‘What the eff?’ It seems not-so-inappropriate to me in those circumstances.”

“Aren’t you supposed to say, like ‘eff you,’ or something? I mean, that’s how you’re supposed to say the f-word?”

“Well you don’t have to say ‘eff you.’ You could say that, but you could also say, ‘what the eff,’ or ‘eff off,’ or even, ‘he’s an effing idiot.’ The f-word is good for versatility. But you shouldn’t say it, of course, until you’re much older, like—” (I tried to think of a realistic age when kids might try out the f-word. 12? 13?—“when you’re 15, or something.”

“Mom, I don’t think I want to say the f-word.”

“Oh, yeah, right,” I said, realizing I was doing that thing with my kid where I talk too much and I’m inappropriately honest. “You shouldn’t use the f-word. Of course.”

She’s Always Listening, And I Never Know What She’ll Say

That Meena, originally uploaded by texasgurl.

My sister and I are daily juggling five kids: three of mine and two of hers. They are 7, 6, 4 and 3 years, plus the baby, 8 months. We are a traveling zoo.

We are desperate for any downtime we can find, so last week they spent their mornings at Vacation Bible School; this week they’re at “gymnastics camp.” We discussed taking the three-year-old to gymnastics, too, but she’s not completely out of diapers yet, so they wouldn’t take her. The gymnastics camp hasn’t turned out to be as cool as it sounded anyway, but whatever, they’re exercising and occupied for three hours a day, right?

On Monday morning, I left the house with all three of mine in tow. My mom is having a sprinkler system installed, so there was a rather handsome gardener in the front yard, working, as we tripped down the sidewalk, arguing about whether the caterpillar on the front porch might sting or not. Meena said hi to him as we passed.

“Good morning,” he said, “Where are y’all off to?”

“We are off to our first day of gymnastics camp,” I told him.

He smiled. “That sounds like fun. You think I could come, too?”

“I guess you could,” Meena said, climbing into the car. “As long as you’re potty-trained.”