When I was 12 years old, I took tennis at camp. I somehow managed to hit myself in the face with the racket, knocking the two front brackets of my braces off. It's a great way to meet people in the cafeteria in seventh grade.
Luckily, Lucy seems to be showing more aptitude than her mother. Ben and Mary Ellen took her to play tennis in the neighborhood this weekend, and according to Ben, she showed pretty good coordination and remarkable strength (ie, she held the racket). Come on, scholarship!
This afternoon I found Lucy in her room. Holding a golf club aloft. As near to the ceiling fan as she could get it. Standing on tiptoe. As though to stick the golf club in the ceiling fan. Which was turned on.
Some questions came to mind:
1) Why did she have a golf club?
2) Why did she want to stick it in the ceiling fan?
3) What would have happened if she'd been 4 inches taller?
Oh, and why wasn't she being supervised? All I know is, when I was little, I played with dolls and books. When her dad was little, he cut his leg open with a saw and set the desert on fire. You be the judge of whose genes are winning.
We went outside after dinner to catch bugs, but we ended up lying on the grass looking at the stars. We didn't see the moon. "He's going to get his pajamas on, and then he'll show up," Lu said. We also didn't see any fireflies. She said, "They must be fast asleep."
Lucy can't decide if she wants to be a doctor or a princess for Halloween. I am trying hard to play it cool.
No, I bet you didn't. At some point, I will do this often enough that the shiny self-righteousness will dull a little, I promise.
My dad, Jim Donaho, is settling into old age with not nearly enough to do besides watch TV and smoke. He comes up here from the Valley to visit us once a month (and more importantly, have his poker game, go to pub trivia, see his shrink and play the occasional game of bridge). When he comes to visit, he brings liters and liters of Diet Coke, which he drinks about one of every day, as well as this V8 Fusion stuff, which could be dismissed as sugary, horrible juice except that is like a V8, only sweet. As in, it has the nutrients of 8 fruits AND vegetables. Or something. But it is the most nutritious thing he ingests on a regular basis.
And Lu loves it. She calls it Granddaddy Juice. She is allowed to have one sugary, nutritious serving every day, even when he is not around. She also loves her granddaddy, and when I see him patiently play with her, I remember the dad he was to me as a little girl. Always a man of indulgent juices, he let me drink heavily doctored “coffee milk” on Sunday mornings starting around age four. When he and Mom divorced, we’d go on Tuesday night dates to the Hunan Restaurant, then rolling skating (i.e., I’d rollerskate; he’d read a book, smoke and wave every single time I rolled by and said, “Hi, Daddy.”).
This is a man who lives to be ruled by women (there’s a long and storied history of them in his past, my mother, stepmother, grandmother, sisters, and me, most notably). Lucy can tell this, and she orders him around more fiercely than anyone. Plus, she worries about him: why does he smoke? where is he right now? where does he live? why doesn’t he live here all the time? maybe we should call him.
Tonight, when I kissed and hugged him goodbye, he said, in classic Lu style, “Wait, we forgot to high-five.” Poor guy, he is taking orders from a whole new generation of women. And I think he’s lucky for it.
Jason and his parents took Lucy to Terra Toys to buy a five-sticker treat (we are trying to reinforce extra good behavior and teach math at the same time). She went there intending to buy a tea set, but a chubby little stuffed unicorn came home with her instead. She showed him to me proudly, prompted by Dad to tell me his name:
"Mom, look, this is Bruiser."
"Bruiser?" I ask.
"Yeah! Isn't he so pretty?"
"Uh," I say to Jason, "I gather you named him Bruiser."
"Yes," Jason replies. "But I really wanted to name him Horny."
The three of us went down to ACL on Sunday. Lucy fit right into the rock and roll scene.
She dyed her hair punk purple.
She got her face painted (if not exactly Kiss style).
She demanded "Freebird" at the Ben Kweller show.
She passed out (though not from too much sun and Heineken).
To add to my feminist mother crisis, the waiter at the Omelettry this morning handed Lucy crayons, paper and a...BARBIE to entertain her while we ate. She promptly began undressing her: "Look, this doll has boobs!"
Then she made up a song that went something like, "Boobs boobs BOOBs boobs boobsboobsboobs..."
This morning on the way to school:
"Mom, boys are cool. Girls are pretty."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because they are."
"I think girls can be cool."
"No they can't. Only boys can be."
"Lucy, do you know what cool means?"
"What?" (What she says when she means, "No, what?")
"Cool is when you're great. I think you're great."
"I'm not great. I'm pretty."
"Lucy, you're great AND pretty."
"No, Mom, I'm just pretty. Can I wear a bow in my hair like Charlize?"
Yes, fine, wear a bow in your hair. Let it be a symbol of your rebellion against everything I stand for.
