Lucy hates to talk on the phone. She must get that from me. When she does deign to grace me with her voice, she does it in all caps.
"HI, MOM. YOU'RE IN DALLAS? UM, TODAY I'M GOING TO GET PICKED UP BY ALEX'S MOM EARLY AND HAVE A PLAY DATE. I MISS YOU. UM, ARE YOU BRINGING ME A GIFT? I LOVE YOU, BYE."
I am walking through the house with Cass, the architect, discussing paint and flooring. Jason is in the other room, discussing whether or not Lu is going to watch TV.
Lu, losing the argument, says loudly, "Dammit!"
Cass and I freeze. I hear silence from Jason in the other room. Cass and I squelch laughter. Jason, collecting himself, stands firm in his anti-TV position (and wins, I should note), without acknowledging the cuss word.
So, um, we have a swearing problem at our house. As much as I'd like to think she learned it from those thugs at school, I am pretty sure she learned it from me. We need some kind of strategy for correcting her, except for the part where we can't stop laughing. It's funny. Dammit.
Michael Jackson. Michael. Jackson. Take a moment to remember how great he was before he completely lost his mind. When I was ten years old, I listened to my "Thriller" tape so much I wore it out. I was moved by the music — physically moved. I won't describe the moves themselves, just know that I not only had visions of breaking it down in the cafeteria of Berkman Elementary, I had actual routines (which were, mercifully, never performed).
There is a seminal piece of music in Lu's future. One that will define how she relates to the world, shake off her parents' taste and stake her own musical territory. It's just not as good as this one.
Lucy does not take ballet or judo. She does not have playdates. We do not do enriching activities. She goes to school and comes home and plays quietly by herself for hours at a time. We ignore her until she invites us to participate ("Mom, sit here. You're in my class. Don't talk, just listen."). This just-getting-by school of parenting, like so many things in my life, is a tremendous source of guilt. But today, a friend at work sent me this article, and I feel liberated. The author makes a strong case for leaving kids alone, arguing that the neglect of their developing minds helps them, uh, develop. On their own.
So far, so good. I am proud to report that Lucy has never once said to me, "I'm bored."
This morning on the way to school, Lu and I were arguing strenuously about what season it was. She insisted it was fall because some of the trees have leaves and some don't (I didn't have the energy to explain deciduous, semi-deciduous and evergreen trees in temperate climates).
"Babe, it's winter."
"Nuh uh."
"Uh huh."
"Nuh uh."
"Ask Ms. Robinson, she will tell you it's winter."
"No, she won't."
"I know: did the groundhog see his shadow?"
"Yes."
"And what does that mean?"
"Six more years of winter."
"See, winter. Wait, not six more years. Six more weeks."
"No, six more YEARS!!! Six more years, Mom."
As I drove away, I shouted out the window, "Bye, Lu, I love you. Six more weeks!" From my rearview mirror, I could see her yelling "SIX MORE YEARS."
For Valentine's Day, Jason bought Lucy a kitchen set for her dollhouse. It requires intricate assembly of furniture and setting a tiny table with flatware the size of fingernail clippings, among other things. As they're in her room rushing to assemble things before we take Lu to Pie's house, so we can have a DATE (you know, for Valentine's Day), I hear:
Lucy: "DAMMIT!"
Jason: "Lucy, what did you just say?"
Lucy: "Dammit."
Jason: "That is not a nice word."
Lucy: "Let's just set the table, Dad."
Last night we had a nice dinner at Chad and Pauline's, and we were joined by their friends Liza and Eric and their son, Paolo. Paolo is a little younger than Lucy, and he is a typical boy, despite his crunchy parents' best intentions: Paolo likes guns the way Lu likes princesses. They had a lot of fun together. At one point, they ran onto the back porch hollering and growling...
Lucy, wielding a small dumb-bell and one of those handles you do push-ups with: "WE ARE HERE TO KILL!!!"
Paolo, brandishing an aluminum bat and kicking at the air: "THESE SHOES ARE FOR DESTROYING!!!"
Lucy: "I AM A VOLCANO QUEEN AND I AM GOING TO EXPLODE LAVA ON YOU."
Paolo: "AND YOU ARE GOING TO DIE."
Could this mean she is trading her crown for a weapon?
I know that not everyone who reads this blog shares my political beliefs. Tough. But even if you don't agree with my left-of-center thinking, you have to admit it's pretty amazing to think that we will, in all likelihood, have an African-American or a woman as president of the United States very soon.
And you have to admit you love Barack. You know you do.
I am in Chicago at the Retail Advertising Conference, and the conference is good, but the weather is BAD. I learned a new weather term: "thunder snow." Thunder snow. I have not heard any thunder, but the wind is blowing so hard the snow is sideways. Jason had planned to come, but the weather did not cooperate.
I did have some company in Jason's absence, as well as further proof of the smallness of this world. The Chicago HIlton was once the largest hotel in the world — it's like a little town, especially when the weather is so bad no one leaves, canceling fancy dinner reservations in favor of warmth and banquet food. And whom should I meet in the 24th Floor Executive Lounge in this little hotel town? My cousin Kevin Major! He travels all the time (in fact, this is his second small-town cousin encounter — he once ran into our cousin Jason Nichols on the tube in London), so it was bound to happen. He taught me a few things about service-oriented development architecture which will make me sound very smart the next time I talk to my agency's development team. Just what I needed tonight.
