I spend an exorbitant amount of time wondering where my children's brains are and why they come up with the things they do. Abby decided to take a garden spider to school. Her teacher already had a spider named "Mrs. Spider" so Abby named hers "Mrs. Spidey." However, before leaving for school the next morning with said spider, she informed me that the spider's name is now "Mrs. Sanchez" because well, "spidey" isn't even a word. How can I not see the sense in this?
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Crush
My daughter is in love with a boy. She's seven. His name is Vicente and he's in her second grade class at school. She told me she remembers the first time she met him, how she told him to put his backpack next to the wall before they did their before-school laps.
Should I be worried? She came to me--eyes bright, face glowing excitedly--and told me she likes a boy. "Well, actually," she said, "it's closer to love." I stopped everything to give her my full attention. I want her to feel comfortable talking to me. Her whole countenance lights up when she says his name; she can't help but smile.
Sometimes this boy rides past our house with his brother. He lives only a few doors down the road. He and his brother smile and wave at me as they pedal past, Vicente's eyes searching beyond me through the window. Abby squeals, frantically racing through the house, throwing on whatever clothes are handy (i.e. dirty, wrinkled and piled on her bedroom floor) to run outside barefoot just to talk to him. If she has just missed him, she calls his name, hoping he's close enough to hear and return. We encourage her to play hard to get, but the concept is completely foreign to her.
"I spit it out today," she tells me. Her eyes are bright, her mouth fights an excited grin. I look at her blankly, trying to follow a conversation I didn't know I was involved, "Spit what out?"
"I told Vicente that I love him."
"Oh? What did he say?" I'm calm. My heart, on the other hand, beats in fear of this new development. I ache for all the emotional unknowns beginning in her life.
"He just went 'nnnnnnnnnggggggg' (eyes rolled, dramatically falling to the ground)."
With an up-down understanding voice, "Oh...then what?"
"Then we played tetherball."
"Who won?"
"I did."
That's my girl, I tell her. Don't let the boy win. Always play your best and never let anyone beat you just because you think it will make them like you. I hope I'm doing this right.
Vicente stops at our yard, holding a wrinkled paper sack. "Can Abby come out? I brought her something." He's so sweet with his earnest eyes, his dark hair hidden under the requisite bicycle helmet. Unfortunately, Abby is grounded. You should see the state of her bedroom. Knowing it's yet another exception to a consequence, I fetch my oldest, telling her to express her thanks quickly and return to the abyss of her creation. I'll pay for the inconsistency in discipline later. The boy did bring a gift after all. We'll ignore that said gift is leftover Fourth of July parade candy and chunks of rhubarb. Abby is thrilled.
Should I be worried? She came to me--eyes bright, face glowing excitedly--and told me she likes a boy. "Well, actually," she said, "it's closer to love." I stopped everything to give her my full attention. I want her to feel comfortable talking to me. Her whole countenance lights up when she says his name; she can't help but smile.
Sometimes this boy rides past our house with his brother. He lives only a few doors down the road. He and his brother smile and wave at me as they pedal past, Vicente's eyes searching beyond me through the window. Abby squeals, frantically racing through the house, throwing on whatever clothes are handy (i.e. dirty, wrinkled and piled on her bedroom floor) to run outside barefoot just to talk to him. If she has just missed him, she calls his name, hoping he's close enough to hear and return. We encourage her to play hard to get, but the concept is completely foreign to her.
"I spit it out today," she tells me. Her eyes are bright, her mouth fights an excited grin. I look at her blankly, trying to follow a conversation I didn't know I was involved, "Spit what out?"
"I told Vicente that I love him."
"Oh? What did he say?" I'm calm. My heart, on the other hand, beats in fear of this new development. I ache for all the emotional unknowns beginning in her life.
"He just went 'nnnnnnnnnggggggg' (eyes rolled, dramatically falling to the ground)."
With an up-down understanding voice, "Oh...then what?"
"Then we played tetherball."
"Who won?"
"I did."
That's my girl, I tell her. Don't let the boy win. Always play your best and never let anyone beat you just because you think it will make them like you. I hope I'm doing this right.
Vicente stops at our yard, holding a wrinkled paper sack. "Can Abby come out? I brought her something." He's so sweet with his earnest eyes, his dark hair hidden under the requisite bicycle helmet. Unfortunately, Abby is grounded. You should see the state of her bedroom. Knowing it's yet another exception to a consequence, I fetch my oldest, telling her to express her thanks quickly and return to the abyss of her creation. I'll pay for the inconsistency in discipline later. The boy did bring a gift after all. We'll ignore that said gift is leftover Fourth of July parade candy and chunks of rhubarb. Abby is thrilled.
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