A Whole New World

They would not know their sea today.



They would not understand who lives here now.



They had not even a concept of "dry."



But although they left no cities ...



... and wrote no books ...




... they were here; they were!




They left themselves behind so she would know them.




And now she's taken them places beyond all of our imaginings.

Oh, To Be Young Again!

Kids. Isn't it great how they love to roam barefoot, and frolic, and act goofy? Just look! Two of 'em put their feet together and it looks—from the knees down—as if it is only ONE child, twisting her legs in an unnatural way, and standing SO freakish and wonky that parental types only have to LOOK at the mock-pose to feel their own knees ache, and hips pop.

The thing is, though, that this WAS one child, twisting her legs in an unnatural way. Worse, it was MY child.



And worst of all? Now she knows HOW MUCH IT BOTHERS ME WHEN SHE DOES THIS.



Eww. I couldn't even do that when I WAS young!

First Bubble

I chewed bubblegum for a long time before I learned to blow a bubble with it. It took a lot of concentration—in short supply when one is young and possessed of precious little attention span—and serious effort, but one summer, en route to a remote hiking trail in the back of my parents' truck, I blew my first real gum bubble! It was with green Hubba Bubba bubble gum, though I do not remember what flavor "green" purported to be.

Whatever it is, it's not the same now. The triumph of the First Bubble, though? THAT is timeless:



This photo wasn't of THE first bubble gum bubble for Little Girl, although it was a subsequent bubble blown on the first day she successfully blew her first bubble. It still took some concentration, as you can see, but OH, was she delighted to show off her new talent!

The Road More Traveled

Little Girl told me about it, and I'm glad she did. I would never have guessed that the trails the worms made along the edge of the road during a spring rain would be so interesting, prolific, or photogenic:

Not-So-New Glasses

Long-overdue photos of Little Girl's "new" glasses.

She has a pink pair:



and a purple pair:



(both of which have been lost, sometimes for days at a time. *sigh*).

Changing My Spots

Because I know at least one of you—which might, in fact, be ALL of you, especially after so many recent and repetitive hiatuses (or would that be hiati?)—reads this sporadic site through a feeder, I also know that you might not notice the fact that I've changed my spots here. Unless, that is, I ANNOUNCE the change, and ask Little Girl here to assist me, thereby exponentially upping the blog's Cute Factor (however temporarily ... hey, THAT works!).

(Here she is!)



So if you can't see it through your feeder, please check out my actual site and—if you're feeling especially bold—let me know what you think of it!

(A real post is coming later today. Yes, really. And then on a REGULAR BASIS ... really ... possibly even while Little Girl and I are BACK IN WYOMING for an upcoming week-long VACATION! Where we will be taking oodles of pictures, and trying to avoid the GIANT PUMA that is roaming the woods near the cabin where we'll be staying with The Ornithologist.

We Can't. WAIT!)

Guilty, Guilty, Guilty!

I know there are dog lovers out there who think that Bad Dog's blog moniker is nothing more than the unfortunate by-product of a disturbed, cat-loving mind. No dog, they think in cuddly-puppy thought-bubbles, could be bad—perhaps misunderstood or misinterpreted, but certainly not "bad."

While I certainly don't put Bad Dog on the same red-hot pedestal as Cerberus, neither is she the simple by-product of my cat-centric world-view, or Little Girl's daddy's training (or lack thereof). No, from the moment we arrived at the Billings, Montana airport to claim—as the weary service-counter attendant described her—"the whiny one," Bad Dog was distinctly different from other dogs I have known.

She has always been brilliant: I don't dispute her intellect. But she's also always been less interested in pleasing people than in using them to further her own interests, most of which revolve around filling her belly or exercising her jaws. And she seems to be of the same, mistaken belief as many politicians in that she thinks that next time, she's not going to get caught.

"Next time," not unlike tomorrow, never quite seems to arrive, but that does not concern her.

I've become more adept at dealing with Bad Dog's transgressions than anticipating them. As I've said before, as pessimistic as I typically come off, I'm really not that good at it. I explain her—particularly to Little Girl—as more of an imp than a devil, because in my increasingly rare, kinder moments, I do believe that she doesn't intend to cause us people pain ... we just get in the way of her own desires and she forgets about our feelings.

But it's really hard, when confronted with the circumstantial—but overwhelming—evidence of Bad Dog taking very blatant advantage of Little Girl's kind offer to sleep on her bed, to gently advise a screaming-teary Little Girl that "Bad Dog didn't mean to make you sad."



It's also hard, especially now that several weeks have passed since the demise of so many of Little Girl's treasured Littlest Pets, to prevent my warped sense of humor from overtaking me. So I just gave up and let it.

It started when I saw this lobotomized cat figurine:



and thought: "You know, we could use this to sprout some of Little Girl's daddy's prairie plants this spring."

This sort of stupidity naturally led me to ponder how the rest of these creatures could be recycled, or (failing any silly brainstorm in that vein) what they resembled, or (because, while that got me farther than recycling did, it didn't get me all the way to the end of the line), what Bad Dog might have been thinking when she was downing them.

Just be glad I didn't take pictures of the bits that came back up, eh?

I thought that this bird's body:



could be combined, Frankenstein-like, with this dragonfly's head:



to create the world's first DragonBird.

That's as far as I got with recycling. One very small planter, and one freak-creature. Hey, I never said this was Einsteinian in its brilliance! Give me a break: you see what Bad Dog left me to work with here!

This pancake-creature was the one that we saw most often in the barf-piles that returned to haunt Bad Dog—you know, should there really have been any doubt about who was to blame—over the 24 hours that followed the slaughter of the leaders in the "Littlest Pets" gang:



All I could think of when I saw this one was "Tragic-Accident Persian." Which, sadly, is what I think of when I see Persians in general:



This mangled sled led me to wonder where in the "Littlest Pets" world the vicious, Venus-Flytrap of a tree that it obviously hit was located:



And this mostly-reassembled dog brought me back to the transporter accident with which Star Trek: The Motion Picture opened (and seriously, that traumatized me SO BAD when I saw it—at age 11 or so—that I could not imagine how any of those characters ever managed to set foot on one ever again ... holy shit, Captain!):



I figure the edging on this one looked like floss-potential, because if there's one thing Bad Dog insists up at the end of a fine plastic meal, it's good dental hygiene:



Little Girl, I must tell you, was not AT ALL amused by my planter idea, although I did wait several weeks to bring it up to her. (Needless to say, I didn't mention any of my other thoughts concerning the remains of the other brutalized "Littlest Pets" to her.)

However, she was charmed by—and eagerly assisted in—my idea to "book" the canine mastermind (or not) behind the crime.

At first, Bad Dog didn't take it very seriously:



But by the time we got to the profile shot, she realized she was in some pretty deep shit:



(Although all you soft-headedhearted dog lovers should know that the only sentence she got was to be banned from Little Girl's room. Because the judge assigned to the case—that would be Little Girl, and don't whine to me about bias and prejudice and that kind of nonsense, because frankly, I was ready to sentence her to a return to Canada when I heard her whining clear across the freakin' terminal the very day we picked her naughty dog ass up—is a softie herself.)

Making a Statement

There are several reasons why it should not come as a surprise that Little Girl recently received her first prescription for glasses:

1. Her daddy wears glasses.
   
2. Her mommy wears glasses.
   
3. The optometrist has been saying, "She'll need glasses someday." since he started seeing her in kindergarten.

And yet, when Little Girl told me one evening a few weeks ago that her teacher had moved her to the back row in the classroom—because she's tall—and now she couldn't see the blackboard, I was surprised. Maybe that's because:

1. Her daddy didn't need glasses until high school.
   
2. Her mommy didn't need glasses until high school.
   
3. The optometrist said, "Her vision has improved!" when he last saw her.

Regardless of the anyone's expectations—or lack thereof—however, at the exam I requested as soon as I heard Little Girl's complaint regarding blackboard blurriness, the optometrist was politely firm that this time: there was no "optional" status attached to his scribbled recommendation.

"I'm not surprised," I lied. And then said honestly, "We'll have this filled right away."

And so we did, just yesterday, enlisting The Exotic Neurotic for fashion consultation. While we waited for her to arrive, I turned Little Girl loose in the Quickie-Glasses Mart, reasoning that regardless of the hideousness of whatever she finally selected, if she would wear them, I would be pleased. Even if I was blinded by pink, which was, of course, her first thought when she learned she would be getting glasses:

"Can I have pink?"

The Exotic Neurotic, of course, could be counted upon for full honesty in relation to the suitability—or not—of eye-wear, or any other -wear. Fortunately, Little Girl also held The Exotic Neurotic in high glamour regard, which was why it was so vital that she attend the glasses-selection process. Naturally, I'd already primed Little Girl on the subject of glasses selection:

• Its importance to complement a variety of other attire.
  
• Its importance to enhance her facial features.
  
• Its vitality to not break our minuscule budget.

To her credit, Little Girl appeared to understand these constraints, and even find them acceptable. And yet, she was immediately drawn to a perfectly repulsive pair of exceptionally HOT PINK frames, with heinous yellow accents, and it was all I could do when she professed her love for the nasty-ass style, to moderate my reaction to:

"Oh my! Well, remember those, but do try on some other frames. You never know what will look good on you, and you really must try a lot of other styles before you pick."

(Little Girl's daddy, when I asked him later to imagine the first frames that Little Girl had been drawn to, summed it up exactly when he said, "Liberace glasses.")

So while I paced, sampled a few frames myself—my prescription had been revised on the same occasion that Little Girl's had been given—and repeatedly checked the clock, urging The Exotic Neurotic with prayer-like devotion to arrive NOW! NOW, please NOW!, Little Girl did do that, and eventually made her way out of the children's frames. Many of them were, in fact, too small for her, and a harried saleslady took a few minutes out of her racing day to point Little Girl in the direction of some transitional-sized frames.

Thank goodness she did.

By the time The Exotic Neurotic arrived—right on schedule, I should add ... hers, not mine—Little Girl had amassed a set of six frames, in which the first, frightening pair were miraculously not included. The Exotic Neurotic appreciatively approved three of these, steering Little Girl with subtle gentleness that she did not show ME, and deemed her overall selection as, "Very nice!" and the three finalists all as "Cute."

With the set thus narrowed and all of them making precisely the statement that girly girls everywhere adore making, my Little Girl quickly finalized two, and gleefully bounced off to observe the selections of others, while The Exotic Neurotic turned on to me.

"Is that the only pair you're going to try?" she inquired archly, sampling a few herself.

"Well, what do you think?"

"They're okay, but try these ... and these ... and these ..."

And so it went, with more laughter and bluntness than with Little Girl, but with just as much care and sensibility.

"I guess it comes down to what sort of statement you want to make," she said towards the end.

"I told you I was okay with 'Librarian,'" I replied, glaring at her from behind a particularly heavy set of frames.

"Fine, but you should at least aim for 'Sexy librarian.' Now, these," and she slid on a pair and looked haughtily upon me. "These say, 'Brainy, but a little dirty.'"

"Umm." Try as I might, I could not make the connection.

The Exotic Neurotic took pity on me and handed me another pair, which I tried on, and found rather disconcertingly stylish.

"That is 'Nerd chic.'"

"Umm. Okaaaay." I reached for the pair that had won the most favor with The Exotic Neurotic prior to this strange Statement Assessment phase of the glasses-selection process. "And what do these say?"

The Exotic Neurotic studied me carefully, her hand on her chin, her eyes narrowed, her every facial muscle expressing careful consideration. And then she said,

"'Works at Corporate, blogs at night.'"

Guess which pair I went with?

The Request That Almost Killed Santa

Last year, Little Girl asked Santa for a trampoline. While I was not fully on board with this request, the fact that I'm insane and paranoid wasn't entirely lost on me. Combined with the fact that I, myself, engaged in many and more dangerous childhood activities—just a very few of which I digressed on in the opening of my last post—and survived, and it is perhaps understandable that I (reluctantly) agreed. Though with the caveat that Santa would deliver only a tiny, indoor "exercise" trampoline, and leave the big purchase for us parent types, for the following summer.

Getting laid off in the summer in question effectively postponed the trampoline yet again, which also brought me more into the trampoline-fold, because who the hell wants to procrastinate by means of THAT sort of dire, financially-frightening root cause? But while any part of this long-delayed request might have resulted in a loss of Santa-faith in another child, Little Girl remained a Believer throughout—that her belief was naturally waning was entirely due to loud-mouthed classmates and logic, and that's the way I'd prefer it, because it's not as traumatic as catching a bleary-eyed Mommy in the process of stuffing stockings, and that's what I've always dreaded.

I'm paranoid like that.

Anyway, each year brings its own challenge in terms of continuing the loving charade (that I don't actually consider it trickery at all has already been blathered about here). Usually, as in the continuing case of the trampoline, it's pretty obvious what's going to be the most difficult of requests, but this year? I was completely blindsided by the cotton candy.

Little Girl has asked for cotton candy for at least three years, so I wasn't surprised that she asked again. I wasn't even concerned, because Wal-Mart®, that unholy bastion of All Things Consumable, has always met my seasonal cotton-candy needs with plastic-tub-sealed ease. I don't even have to look for the shit; it's right there on a four-tiered wire rack in the entryway by the "fresh" produce.

So I had not even written the item down on my abysmally-slowly-reducing StockingStuffer CrapList™, so certain was I of finding it in its traditionally obvious location and constant state of profuse suppliedness. When I discovered the rack entirely empty yesterday evening, then, I knew I was in very Dire Straits, far worse than anything the band of the same name every produced. *self-pleased purring at that musical zinger*

Despite a sinking sense of doom, I nevertheless vainly hoped that the foul turd in my shopping swimming pool was instead a laughing Snickers® bar, and searched the store from Aisle 1 to Aisle 582B. Naturally, there was no cotton candy to be found, although I did encounter many and sundry individuals who were seemingly as bent on sucking what precarious joy could be found on shopping in such hoards as they were on taking up the ENTIRE. AISLE. And not because they were grossly overweight—having been so myself, I am hardly one to point a chubby finger—but more because they were grossly self-centered, not even bothering to LOOK AROUND at the BAZILLION other shoppers, but parking their carts in the MIDDLE OF THE TOO-CRAMPED PATHWAYS and not even NOTICING when I bodily moved THEIR carts to let MINE pass.

Sheep testicles on a string that they were, and bonus points to you if you get that the "string" means they were behaving as nasty little retail puppets. ("Sheep testicles" is obviously just meant to be rude.)

After waiting a heart-shrinking eternity in line and paying for my other crap—most of which was household necessities, because this week has been hell for getting ANYthing done—I made my way outside into the oozing drizzle and loaded my car. And then changed out of my stylin' boots into some BLISSFULLY comfortable sneakers, which I really should have done some hours sooner, but I'm stupid that way. And other ways. What was I saying?

Oh yes. So there I was, Sentenced's melodic Cold White Light pouring out over me and through the car's pathetically un-soundproof body to bring heavy metal joy to the world, or at least one far corner of the Wal-Mart square-mile parking lot, pondering like crazy over where the heck I might find cotton candy. Preferably before the blizzard came. I could not come up with a reasonable option beyond the movie theater, so I decided that I would simply have to go there and make an idiot out of myself eloquently plead the case of Christmas magic until they sold me some, without forcing me to also purchase a ticket, although I was pretty much planning to do that if I had to.

Nonetheless, I first endeavored to locate cotton candy in a nearby grocery-and-liquor warehouse, and therein purchased another bottle of wine Christmas-shopping painkiller, which was the smartest move I'd made all day. And then, as I waited FOUR CYCLES to get through the stoplights, I realized that my salvation was not the theater, but the noise-and-light spewing circus next to it. Otherwise known as (UP)CHUCK E. CHEESE.

Aside from the nausea-inducing irony of being saved by a loathsome mouse, I was thrilled with my new plan. So enchanted was I, in fact, that I barreled right through a snowbank on my way from my parking space to Chuck E.'s door, not noticing that five paces to the southeast, there was a neatly-cleared pathway. D'oh. Wet-footed but triumphantly, I arrived in Chuck E.'s corded-off entryway, and waited. And waited and waited, until just as I was brazenly jumping over the barricade to meeting my Little Girl's wish to Santa, Chuck E.'s guard appeared and eyed me suspiciously.

Undeterred, I eagerly—and with no trace of my typical reticence to address intimidating strangers, even if they are about a foot shorter than me—inquired, "Do you sell cotton candy here?"

"Yes," allowed the stooge cautiously.

"OH THANK GOODNESS!" I said, thisclose to hugging the bearer of such glad tidings. "I need some. Desperately. For Santa!"

While my overwhelming relief threw me a few dozen loops off of coherent, it was apparently heartfeltedly sincere and/or charmingly wacky enough to melt the ice off the five-foot nothing checker-inner and -outer of Chuck E. pilgrims.

"For Santa?" she laughed. "Right over there." And pointed me at the bags and bags of spun-sugar crappiness dangling from the ceiling next to the array of plastic-based prizes.

While I waited behind two noisy children eager to redeem their tokens for more glittery items, I started to stew over my next impediment to Santa-success. For while I was not at all ungrateful to find it in any case, the fact that the cotton candy was covered in plastic bearing Chuck E.'s rodent likeness was not going to fly with a child who was, while still wanting to believe, beginning nonetheless needing to doubt. And while I truly find nothing wrong with this process in theory, in practice, I did not want to be final crack in Santa's armour.

It was on the snow-cleared return to my car that I hit upon an oven-roasting turkey bag as the saving grace in this scene. It would mean yet another frenzied and frightening foray into the holiday crowds—and another dollar from my pocket into the chilled bell-ringer's bucket, 'cause I'm soft like that—but it HAD to be done. For Santa! For innocence! For belief! And most of all, for love.

Now "all" I have to do is get it into her stocking without getting caught. *whimper*

Continuing Education

Little Girl's current grade is fraught with annoyingly repetitive homework—moreso than any grade preceding it, and, I hope, any grade following it. Although there are also assignments which do allow for more than a light sprinkling of creativity, these are the exception, rather than the rule. For example, the journaling—in which the child writes one entry during the week and the parent/s write another—is open-ended, except for a sketchy deadline and the instruction to write something about the week that has just passed. And on the other end of the spectrum is the daily ten-minute drill between parent and child covering "math facts."

If you'll notice the high level of parent inclusivity in the homework there, you'll understand further my irritation with the assignments this year. I did my battle with math facts thirty years ago, and I don't especially appreciate being drafted again at a time when all the other kids my age are serving in proper advisory capacity. *pout*

Anyway, the teacher, who ostensibly does NOT actually read the journals—but does check to assure that they have been completed—does insist that the math-fact barrage has been completed daily via a "Homework Assignment Sheet," which parents must duly sign, certifying that the deed was done each weekday. Because Little Girl informed me that students could skip the ten-minute excursion into parental boredom if they completed an extra "Hundred Sheet" or two—and because Little Girl enjoys the written exercises somewhat better than the verbal ones—and since Little Girl's grandma had been certifying the occasional ten-minute excursion into Math Hell every other day or so, I did not so much as SEE a "Homework Assignment Sheet" last week.

I suppose I sound like quite the uninvolved parent, and a lackadaisical one at that, but while I certainly do not enjoy the ten-minute check of math facts, I had nonetheless been participating, and doing so in a reasonably mature fashion, too. So. There. I had also seen heard the clear sound of success as Little Girl picked up in pace and accuracy over time, to the point where she, too, was bored out of her little gourd, and therefore I did not feel neglectful in the slightest, having no reason (yet) to distrust my child's word on the subject of her homework assignments.

Yet.

But then, last Sunday night, I opened her communications folder and found therein a fully-completed, Monday through Friday, "Homework Assignment Sheet" signed by none other than ...

"HEY!" I said sharply, realizing what was going on with a cold-shower of a shock. My thoughts of making sure that no notes about overdue lunch fees or upcoming field trips were forgotten inside the folder went shooting off like rockets, only with considerably more flame. "I DIDN'T SIGN THIS. OR THIS. OR THIS!"

And Little Girl, who had been bubbling along about her plans for the evening, stopped short in her verbal tracks, and suddenly found the floor very interesting, as in she could not look away from it for a moment.

I curtly told Little Girl we would have to talk about this later—and I shook the paper full of forgeries until it gave as clear of a warning sound as a flat, thin rattlesnake—and then I instructed her to go to her room and, "pick something up or something." And no television or visits with Neighbor Girl tonight, thankyouverymuch.

Left with Little Girl's inattentive daddy, who was completely absorbed in the meal he was creating, I studied "my" signatures, appalled. Because although close study revealed two minor points of erasure, the rest of the signatures were really ... very, very good. Oh, she wasn't going to be able to cash a $10,000 check or anything, but I could easily see that such a day WOULD come, if this disturbing development were not neatly nipped in the bud. And quickly.

But it was not until I shook the paper again—right under Little Girl's daddy's nose so as to temporarily redirect his attention from the barbeque he was preparing—and pointed out the three false signatures that had first presented themselves as fakeries that I realized the true extent of the situation: it was not only the latter three cases which had originally startled me with their smooth falsity, but ALL FIVE of the signatures were fake. EVERY. SINGLE. DAY! And? Little Girl's teacher had not caught on, but had smoothly drawn her traditional red smiley face next to EACH. ONE.

Although I spent a fair amount of time quietly snickering—and silently speculating what sorts of legal and illegal occupations might require the skills of my signature-mimicking child—I spent much more at the promised hour of "later" trying to help Little Girl clearly and irrevocably see how her new forgery scheme was a trust-breaching mix of lying and stealing. I did not relate the story of my own (far less skilled) attempt to forge my mother's signature on a note excusing myself from something-or-other—I remember getting caught, but I do not remember what I failed to get out of—and I did not berate her for beginning a career path towards professional identity theft. Not that either of those things are irrelevant, but I didn't figure they were quite relatable.

I seemed to make the point well enough by asking Little Girl about what she would do or how she would feel if similar situations were wrought under HER name. And then I informed her that she would not only be doing "Hundred Sheets" throughout the coming week, but she would ALSO be doing the ten-minute math-fact sessions with me each and every day, to make up for the trickery she'd engaged in the last week.

The thing that most concerns me about the entire escapade is not whether Little Girl actually had any sort of hint about whether her actions were wrong at the time she engaged in them. She probably did, but right and wrong are, in my opinion, not always easy to discern, and the focus of a child is nothing compared to that of an adult ... and that's on a good day for both of us. I think right and wrong when it comes to something like a forged signature—hardly a "natural" thing itself—are largely learned, so what worries me most is whether I am providing Little Girl with enough reasoning skills to complement her empathy and sensitivity to others, even in cases where she might not see, initially, how her own actions might possibly be considered harmful to or by someone else, and regardless, how wrong IS wrong, even if no one hears it when it falls in the forest.

I can't be there or anticipate all the quandaries and odd variants of ethical situations that Little Girl finds herself in, even at her current tender age, and it will all only escalate as she gets older. So what I'm trying to do is help her to readily think of other people, and to consider the consequences of her own actions as they pertain to others, even when her own desires are pressing so hard that they seem to be "needs" rather than "wants." And I'm surprised how hard it is not to just TELL her what I think she should do rather than ask questions, suggest parallels, and help her arrive at a true understanding of her own.

We both have a lot of work to do.

The Kindness of Strangers

During this summer of unemployment, Little Girl and I made more trips on average to the cute little craft store where we also get our farm-fresh eggs. The eggs—while truly marvelous in their rich, bright deliciousness—cannot fully explain the increase in shopping time, which probably sounds stupid, given that we were excessively low on precious funds. But if you knew what the place was like—an oasis of quiet beauty in a noisy and too-often ugly world—it might make more sense, and so might the fact that I did continue to spend some money there, even as I dramatically reduced my other purchases (even gasoline).

The proprietor of the shop is another reason I enjoy it so much. While I hardly know her well, we know each other by name because of the day I'd brought Little Girl directly to the store following an entirely unpleasant day and dental appointment. We had just been there a few days prior, so when Shoppe Owner remarked upon this fact, I elusively ummed for a moment before uncharacteristically blurting out the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth: "It was just a tough day, and it's always so relaxing and peaceful shopping here!"

While Shoppe Owner had been clearly pleased to hear this, I didn't realize how deep the full effect of my words had really been until some time later, when she sent me a card in the mail, having easily extracted my full name and address from the personal check I'd written. The card itself was an unremarkable, plain Thank you sort, but the inside was quite another thing: included was an advertisement for the store which quoted my spontaneous words from that otherwise craptastic day, attributed to a just-sufficiently-anonymous person with my same first name and last initial.

Written smoothly underneath this—and another insert; this one was several folded and nested "spend-10-earn-1" Shoppe Dollars—Shoppe Owner had written that she hoped I didn't mind her using my words in this way (I didn't), but that she, too, had not had a stellar day that day, and it had meant a great deal to her that I had described her store in the same vein in which she enjoyed it. And while Little Girl's daddy scoffed at my on-the-fringe-of-teariness at such sweetness, rightfully pointing out that she could just as easily be assuring herself of a customer for life—and ignoring the fact that I already self-identified as such—I still felt warmly fuzzy about the entire thing, which is pretty impressive since I'm more often than not a paranoid, depressive sort in my daily existence.

Anyway, with a mutually-established relationship based on my interest in the Shoppe and my unknowingly saying so at just the right time, it wasn't too shocking that Shoppe Owner remarked upon the odd hours Little Girl and I were keeping this summer, or that I didn't hesitate, this time, to tell her why. And we talked so long on that day that Little Girl actually tired of frolicking amongst the many cats and kittens outside the shop before Shoppe Owner and I tired of talking. As I paid for my eggs, Shoppe Owner promptly and without provocation offered me a 10% discount during my unemployment, and I was touched by this small, unexpected kindness.

To say that I abused this gift would be as inaccurate as to say that I took it for granted, but what I did do was feel even more relaxed in that Shoppe, even on the days I spent no money at all. Whatever might have motivated Shoppe Owner to do what she did, I was surprisingly certain that I knew it was simple humanity, motivated by nothing more than the difficulty she knew I was facing, and I appreciated that more than I can express.

I certainly did not expect there to be more to this summer episode, especially after I smilingly told her of my new job, but Shoppe Owner extended my discount until I received my first paycheck. And then, the next time I visited, she produced a small gift bag with bubblebath in my favorite scent, a tiny jarred candle in my favorite color (other than black), and a Tootsie Roll® lollipop (Little Girl and I had taken to buying each other small candies on occasion). Again, the "actual" value of the gift was minor, but that it was given was immeasurably precious.

I thought of it all again yesterday, when Little Girl wondered aloud—prompted by a silly little tiff with a certain school "friend"—what this other girl would be like without knowing Little Girl. With curiosity coating her voice like the candy outside of the lollipop over a small sadness like the Tootsie Roll center, she speculated that this particular individual wouldn't be much different from knowing her than not. And I was able to tell her as certainly as I tell her that I will always love her, that even virtual strangers touch our lives as we touch theirs, and the seemingly smallest act can bring about a great change, and mean so very much.

After all, I'd found the shop to be a wonder even before I knew its owner to be exceptional, too.

The Struggle Continues

Ever since I was "let go" by my former employer, I've vacillated between long-lasting, easily-sustainable snits of self-righteous pissed-offedness and short-lived, hard-fought moments of mature understanding. It seems to me that even creating the latter is akin to CERN-worthy experiments, wherein highly unstable particles materialize for the scantest of moments, but are heralded by those who are into such things with words like "triumphant" and "marvelous" and other nice accolades, despite the excessively temporary nature of their very existence.

Now, I'm not likening my limited abilities to behave with some semblance of propriety with regards to getting shit-canned to the high physics practiced by scientists at CERN in any way—I'm just saying that my finer emotions regarding getting laid off last about as long as the more unusual particles studied by such people. Because I think that's funny, see? And because I think I know how those scientists feel, wishing they could extend the fragments of a second during which they bring into existence something very rare and delicate and highly-prized, but knowing such a thing is simply beyond possibility.

As Little Girl grows up, she's becoming more and more aware of things that happen outside of her tiny little sphere of influence, and as this happens, I'm having to reach far beyond what I typically consider myself capable of, and actually practice the ideals I preach and hold dear. It's a fine thing to recognize the impossibility of behaving well at all times, but it's difficult to reconcile that with the basic parental desire to prepare your child(ren) well and thoroughly, and equip them to behave with kindness, consideration, and fairness, particularly when the Big Bad "Real" World doesn't seem too keen on any of those as a matter of general practice.

But I realized, as Little Girl said something not especially derogatory—but certainly not complimentary—about my former employer the other day, that while I might have given good lip service to the basic idea that shit happens, I don't exactly demonstrate that I really believe that as nasty as it may feel when it happens, the emotions that you might associate with a pile of crap are not necessarily intended by the crapper. Which is to say, although I did explain to Little Girl that my former employer wasn't feeding off the Dark Side when conjuring up Ye Olde Layoff, my actions did not so much reinforce my words.

It wasn't even something simple that I did wrong, like it would have been if Little Girl had caught me drawing that pentagram in chicken blood and preparing a vat of snake oil and newt tongue with which to anoint the demon I was calling forth from the deepest pits of Hell to wreck havoc upon the layer-offers who hadst offended me. I mean, that's not a simple scenario, but it IS simply wrong, and in clear conflict with what I have said regarding everyone just trying to do what is best for their own selves in this whole mess.

What I had failed to bring into the equation was how Little Girl would interpret my sadness and my anger and my frustration with being "let go." When someone I love is hurting, I do the same thing; I look for the source of the hurt and regardless of whether I know whether it caused pain intentionally or not, I hate it with an intensity fired right out of the love I feel for the person who has been injured. And because of all of that surging emotion and angst—and especially when there is no obvious ill-intent to back up my feelings—I associate the cause with intent. Because that, while quite possibly untrue, would at least justify my fury.

Little Girl wasn't anywhere near that level, but I heard the precursor so very plainly that it might as well have been shrieking like Arch Enemy at tip-top volume. And so when I explained the situation again, in as great detail as I thought was appropriate, I tried to keep a much stronger reign on my own emotions, and remind myself over and over that I wasn't personally attacked by a layoff, but that a layoff had been reluctantly delivered as the last option of a struggling company who had, too, suffered a loss.

It was hard. It was—and IS—so damn hard I could make a very bad joke about how very, very hard it was (and how incredibly long-lasting it is) and not even smirk, much less let loose with a snicker. I don't think I did the difficult task justice, and I'm not even sure that it's possible to do so, so entangled are personal reactions and struggles with this particular sort of uncomfortable-for-all incident. Separating emotion and interpretation from cold hard fact when that fact permeates pretty much every level of existence IS a tall order, after all.

Astronomically elevated or not, elementary parallels were blatantly obvious when Little Girl sadly told me that a prized toy of hers had been stolen on the playground that day. Although we reached no resolution either in me feeling badly about being laid off or her feeling badly about her purloined toy, we talked about how it felt pretty much the same, whether the hurt was intended or not. And then we talked about the fun things we would do that day to help heal our frustrations, and a little bit about the karma that we each—admittedly vindictively—hoped would come into play. It wasn't the first time we've had this sort of talk, and it won't be the last.

But at least we're still talking. And trying to be fair.

Hello? Cousin?

Little Girl's school has been very busy slaughtering forests during this barely hatched fall term, and I've already reduced to just skimming the pieces that are addressed to me. I'm not even very cautious about it, with my mental conversation going pretty much exactly like this, "PTO? NO! Book order? Maybe later. Carnival? OMG, I am so NOT baking a cake for the freakin' cakewalk again this year! Box tops? Already on it."

I feel pretty secure in my irresponsibility, too. For one thing, I know from past experience that the mere presence of one paper-committed edict on a subject means that there will be at LEAST one more related copy to "remind" me of the thing I was so dedicated to forgetting. Which I'll also promptly discard, because there's at least a 50/50 chance of there being a second reminder. And? My brain is full as it is.

But school-related information that comes in the mail is another matter. Clearly, stuff that rates a stamp is of vastly more importance than that which is haphazardly stuffed into Little Girl's laminated parent/teacher Communications Folder. So that stuff, I actually read.

Thus it was that I came to read the letter in which us parental types are informed of the school's "easy" way to keep up-to-date on students' academic progress and remaining lunch funds. Although, I'm not exactly impressed, because I've used this system before and know that 1) "academic progress" at Little Girl's age means "anything warranting detention" and nothing else (and I'm only guessing about detention, because last year, there was NOTHING related to Little Girl's grades or behavior available via this portal, and she didn't get detention, but hey, maybe that's not in there, either), 2) it doesn't e-mail "low lunch funds" warnings, it only e-mails "OUT OF lunch funds" alerts, and 3), there's no way to change the heinously unfriendly username or password that are assigned to me by the school.

And that last bit makes the SHOUTED note at the bottom of the letter that much more funny, because YOU'RE DAMN RIGHT I'M GOING TO NEED TO KEEP THIS LETTER FOR LATER REFERENCE. D'oh! Anyway, while I'll certainly check to see if there have been any improvements made to the system since last year in these three critical—to me—areas, I'm not exactly holding my breath. Still, because the letter came in the mail, I read it carefully, just in case there might be something new or different described in this postage-worthy missive.

What I found instead was a few little things that had me laughing out loud, so even though they are not really all that funny—just to me, and this is why it's so important to be "easy" when it comes to humor ... you have so much more fun—I'm going to share here anyway.

For starters, I was warned in the letter that my username, #####, was Case Sensitive. This would be very important except that as you may have surmised from my strategic use of the NUMBER symbol, my username was comprised entirely of numeric values. I do hope that at least one other parent's username includes letters, because otherwise, this notice is just plain silly. Then there was, of course, the hilarious—but considerate—aforementioned suggestion that I should "KEEP THIS LETTER IN A SAFE, SECURE LOCATION FOR LATER REFERENCE, IF NECESSARY." Which, of course, I shall do, assuming that "in that bigass stack of stuff I always meant to carefully classify and store in the filing cabinet" qualifies as "safe" and "secure," and I suppose as long as gravity is in the picture, it doesn't.

Finally, there was the Pièce de Résistance of silliness, and that was this, introductory sentence in the final paragraph of the letter: "The attached brochure will hopefully assist you with any questions you may have regarding your parental access to <Specific School Software System Name>." And I know you're halfway to dreamland now and probably wondering what the hell could be funny about that, and maybe thinking what a snarky whiner I am, and all of that is fine and TOTALLY your right—even if you ARE wrong—but the thing is ... there wasn't a brochure, attached, unattached, or even detached. It just plain wasn't there! Much like my maturity.

But the good news is, I feel MUCH better about my own inadequacies now. Because THIS school administration? They are obviously people I can relate to.

Saved By The Sign

Waiting in lines with the hoards of other attendees at Little Girl's school's "Open House" last week provided her with a prodigious quantity of time in which to irritate me and me with ample opportunity to fruitlessly battle against utter boredom. Of course, in devising innovative new ways to annoy me, Little Girl was waging her own war against the inherent dullness of being trapped in the line to have school pictures taken—the only reason I'd conceded to this pre-school-season pilgrimage in the first place—but even knowing that couldn't help me feel more charitably to her as she repeated slammed her back against the hallway wall, slid slooooowly down until her butt impacted the floor, and poked my ankles with her feet.

"Little Girl," I hissed grumpily for the 45,431st time and stepping out of range (or so I thought), "That's. ENOUGH."

Giggling, Little Girl stood up, went down, and stretched again. And successfully proved that she could stretch that far anyway, because apparently the rules of play here were adaptable enough so that she didn't actually have to have her BACK against the wall or even any body part at all in contact with the wall when she prodded my feet with her own. Which I should have known, it being HER game and HER "rules" anyway.

When rolling my eyes and attempting to shoot stinging lasers out of them failed to impress the seriousness of the situation upon Little Girl, I finally gave in to the inevitable and responsibly and maturely directed her to STAND. NEXT TO ME. and study the all-too-familiar surroundings of her school with me.

"Is that new?" I asked, pointing to a brightly-colored "Welcome Back" sign on the door to the art room and not caring about the answer in the slightest. After all, either "yes" or "no" was going to get me pretty much the exact same amount of ankle-kicking free time. "Oh, hey, is that a menu? What's for lunch on the first day of school?"

Alas, "chicken nuggets"—despite being much more enthusiastically delivered than the preceding answer ("yes")—didn't go very far towards accomplishing my goals, either.

As it turned out, Little Girl herself broke the thrall of her own parent-torturing game when she spotted a new sign on the wall.

"Look, Mommy!" And she pointed towards a bright yellow, well-intentioned, Bully Free Zone™ sign.

And I snickered, squinted, and studied the design closely before concluding that THIS, I had to preserve for posterity. And I scrounged my little black notebook out of my purse and made a note therein.

I can hardly complain about the general idea behind the posting of such a sign, because certainly, I don't support bullying unless someone is prepared to take such action against my former employer. (I kid, I kid. Sorta.) Kids can be cruel in the best of circumstances and it's important to stop such behavior in its tracks wherever possible. If posting a sign to this effect is going to help, even a tiny little bit, I support it. Plus, it killed a few minutes in the long-ass picture-taking waiting line, so WTF, right?

But although I'm not even suggesting I could do better, the pictures on these signs leave a helluva lot to be desired. In fact, it reminded me of one I came across in the warehouse adjoining my former office, wherein a hand was clearly depicted, but the associated star-like shape next to it—over which a red circle with a slash was drawn—was so ambiguous to me that I actually went so far as to ask the Pretzel Logician whether that sign really meant, "Do Not Drop Ninja Stars," which was all I could make out of it.

For the record, he rather dryly retorted that it was "Do Not Stick Hand In Moving Machinery." Huh. Boring, and not AT ALL accurately conveyed by the illustration.

Anyway, while misinterpretation of the image on the new sign at Little Girl's school was neatly precluded by the addition of WORDS—something the illustrators of ninja stars should bear firmly in mind—I couldn't quite see what the picture had to do with it all, either. Because it looked like a big girl leading a little boy along by the hand, which was fine, except the girl had a ponytail that looked disturbingly like a double-headed hatchet. I mean, really, what's supposed to be conveyed by having a hatchet-head? If she was the bully, I would think she'd be raising a fist over a cowering kid, or something more bullyish than apparently taking him for a walk, but then there'd be a circle with a slash through it over her and her dangerous hairdo, right?

On the other hand, if the girl in the picture isn't a bully, then what's the message there? That activities not constituting bullying are primarily focused on hand-holding whilst strolling along to no apparent destination whatsoever? Not that there's anything wrong with having a big girl with hatchet-hair hold your hand, I supose, but if I was that kid, I'd be scared! After all, because he's shorter than she is, HE'S RIGHT UNDER THE PONYTAIL OF DEATH!

In case you're wondering, I didn't share these speculations with Little Girl as she peered interestedly at my effectively illegible chicken-scratchings in my notebook, although I do recall commenting that I thought the design of the "Bully Free Zone™" sign was "weird." Nor did I point out that the sign had actually helped me, preventing me and my non-axe-like hairstyle from being bullied by a bored child who's still somewhat shorter than me.

But I thought it. Oh yes I did.

Im In Yr Garbij, Chekin Fer Reesikuluhbuls

In a house that's—sadly, considering we've had multiple canine and feline residents—been invaded by mousy little rodents on more than one occasion, I've understandably set up some fairly stringent Garbage Regulations. These rules were rather loosely enforced before the first mouse sighting, and stemmed more from my laziness than anything else (so sue me; I didn't always FEEL like emptying that heavy, upstairs trash-collecting urn), but they were there, so it's not like Little Girl didn't KNOW.

Of course, when you're a child, your attention span resembles more of a tiiiiiiny little radar blip than a focused, incoming 747, so I suppose it's understandable that Little Girl suffers from a weekly lapse or so. Even if I can't quite accept this distressing frequency of forgetfulness.

Still, it wasn't so bad to find a crusty yogurt container in the upstairs trash every now and again, and while I continued to attempt to enforce and regularly explain the Very Good Reasons behind the rule, I didn't exactly stress out over it. And gradually, Little Girl progressed to the point where her infractions were almost—but not quite—rare, although they became significantly more impressive in their magnitude, as I found everything from a nectarine pit to a half-eaten, pepperoni-free slice of pepperoni pizza.

Since the garbage contained vastly more upstairs-garbage-appropriate items, like wadded Kleenex® and remnants of craft projects, though, I felt as though significant progress was being made. And anyway, there hadn't been a mouse sighting at an elevation above basement level in a VERY long time.

But last night, as I lounged, engrossed in some article or other on an important religious or ethical question a witty slam at celebrity "fashion," I became aware of a strange rustling in the vicinity of the large, antique crock that serves as our upstairs trash receptacle. Reluctantly, I broke my too-close stare-lock with the monitor and leaned back in my chair, craning my neck for a view of what just might be the next Vermin Invasion. What I saw, however shocking, was not, thankfully, mouse-based, though it was a rather odd sight ...

"Excuse me, kitty," I said, addressing the ass end of FRISKitty, who continued to perch on the edge of the crock, her two back feet and one front paw daintily and delicately balancing the rest of her body over the trash. Her demeanor contrasted sharply with this careful posture, being intensely focused and not at ALL deterred from the ocean of crumpled tissues beneath her, and she shoved her free paw and face into the waves, her attitude one of determined searching.

"EXCUSE ME, KITTY," I repeated, loudly this time, and starting to giggle. "What the HECK are you doing?"

Little Girl, who had been starting to doze off some distance behind the furry garbage snipe and me, became curious and materialized at my side.

"Oh, how CUTE!" she said, not quite mirroring my thoughts on the matter.

"Well, it's funny," I said, "but not exactly cute. Did you put something in the trash that she might be interested in?"

"No," Little Girl said, all seriousness now.

"Are you sure?" I asked, moving to stand behind the still single-mindedly questing FRISKitty, and attempting to see what it was that held her interest so strongly.

"Yes," Little Girl assured me, and I'm sure if I had turned to look at her that her face would have been the very picture of perfect innocence. But, remembering by now that her memory for things like The Rules of Upstairs Trash Disposal was not exactly stellar, I remained intent upon FRISKitty, and it was mere moments before she turned, lithely jumped down from the edge of the crock, and began to gnaw at her prize.

"Oops," said Little Girl, clearly chagrined at the sight of the bone of the chicken leg she'd had for supper.

"Mmm hmm," I hummed dryly. "Why don't you just rip off that little bit of chicken there for your kitty and then take the bone downstairs to the kitchen garbage, where it belongs."

And off Little Girl went, while FRISKitty, placated with a bite or two of chicken, licked her chops and finally abandoned the trash.

Different Is Good

Little Girl received a call from a classmate of hers, Insistent Girl, the other day—more accurately, I should say she received YET ANOTHER call from Insistent Girl. IG has, it seems, been attempting to connect with Little Girl for (as she says) "DAYS and DAYS and DAYS" now, but the near-constant running of our dial-up Internet service in this, The Summer Of My Unemployment, has proved to be quite the IG-barrier. And had I known that? I'd've been more careful about leaving that sucker running on Saturday, too.

Anyway, so IG wanted Little Girl to come over and play at her house, which was located WAY outside of walking range from ours, and though it pained me greatly to see my "free day" demoted from happy letter-writing and guilty-pleasured Dr. 9O21O-watching, I sighed and asked what time frame IG was considering. This question proved to be more complicated than I could have possibly guessed, as IG was apparently cleared by her parents to accept whatever time frame I approved, and thus, did not have a specific range in mind.

Since my stubborn streak is so far out of IG's league so as to make it utterly insignificant, I continued to direct Little Girl to get a time from IG, even as my temper thinned to wispy gauze-like imperceptibility, and after that, to extract IG's address from her. After FIVE. MINUTES. of mood-deflating, pins-and-needles painful, back-and-forthing, we established a three-hour block, including lunch, and I grumpily stomped upstairs to query some online mapping service or other while Little Girl bouncily danced away downstairs to change her clothes and pack a bag of entirely superfluous "stuff."

Despite my crankiness—and house-envy, when I saw IG's family's GIGANTOR, completed structure ... WITH garage—I did not really lapse until IG called my cellphone about a half-hour before the afternoon's agreed-upon end-of-playtime and then passed the phone to Little Girl, who said, "IG wants to know if we can come play at our house. She's bored with her house."

My sense of Playdate Propriety thus pushed right off a cliff, I entirely forgot about the fact that I have precious little experience in Playdate Etiquette and bluntly refused. I explained, even as IG pushed for "just a little while" in the background, that our house was currently moldering in the after-effects of sweet-corn blanching and freezing, and the in-progress effects of Little Girl's daddy's prairie-plant seed harvesting. (Yeah, well, it was TRUE, and not at all pretty. Plus? I was not about to let IG invite herself over, all on the basis of ONE out-of-school playtime.)

My self-righteous rush carried me through the pleading phone call, and although I felt a little dirty doing so, I conceded to a two-hour extension of play. That proved to be a mistake for, on the heady heels of that success, IG called my cellphone again, this time while I was en route to retrieve Little Girl. She actually called THREE TIMES, but I didn't answer any of them, mostly thanks to Dream Theater's beautious storm of an introduction to Systematic Chaos, which easily drowned out the vibrational ring of my phone, snugly secure inside my purse for the duration of the journey.

Upon my arrival, IG descended on me like a short-girl version of a Category 5 hurricane and commenced pleading for Little Girl's overnight presence, while Little Girl casually sipped a bottle of water behind her. After the third or fourth reiteration, with rising assurances that Little Girl would be returned in plenty of time for us visit her paternal grandmother the following day, the ridiculousness of the situation smacked me hard between the eyes, and I smiled when I said, "IG. I understood what you were saying the first time you said it. I'm very glad you girls had so much fun together that you want Little Girl to spend the night, but it just won't work for us tonight."

Temporarily stunned, especially after informing me that if it didn't happen TONIGHT, it wouldn't be even VAGUELY POSSIBLE for it to happen "for, like, TWO. YEARS!" IG paused for a moment, and I promptly seized the opportunity to continue, assuring her that we would give her a call and arrange a time for her to visit Little Girl at home and play—though, frankly, a return pilgrimage to Chuck E. Cheese sounded more appealing to me—during the next week. Because even the most impressively-organized parent I know has at least ONE opening in a two-year time frame.

At last, I seemed to have convinced IG that I was, indeed, not going to give in, and she and Little Girl retreated to the house to collect Little Girl's things. Lacking a copy of Rejecting An Overnight Invitation for Dummy Parents, I remained in the car, pondering my options. There were several other children on the premises, and from my open car door, I heard the occasional parental grumble at one or the other of them. I didn't see any shadows of adequate height in the windows or near the door, though, and I took that to mean it wasn't necessary for me to limp my running-strained, allergy-assaulted self out of the car and up to the doubtlessly sinus-paining altitude of the four-foot deck in front of the door.

I found myself suddenly and intensely longing for someone to tell me what the "right" thing to do was in this situation—just the bit of Child-Collection from Playtime—and it brought me right back to the early days after Little Girl had been born, when I wrestled with every "parenting" dilemma from correct diaper installation to proper breastfeeding latch-on, from the right translation of various baby cries to the appropriate method of making her burp. If all of that—which now seemed like EASY problems to have—was a challenge in the beginning, surely this wasn't so unusual of a problem, either, given that I had so little experience with it.

So, I got out of my car and went slowly over to the house, and I met IG's dad and it all was quite unremarkable. My anxiety didn't lessen at all, but my appreciation for IG and whatever HER parents found challenging did ... a little. Because I was very well reminded of not only the degree to which even the "smallest" parenting question can expand and confuse, but also the many differences between parents, and between children, and between situations. Various unqualified and judgmental types may feel "right" about issuing declarations of correct behavior about just about anything from On High, but I'd learned the hard way early on, when I'd engaged in many a discussion of the early "hot topics" in parenting—"at home" vs daycare, and breastfeeding vs bottle-feeding—that what is right for me and mine is not at all necessarily correct for you and yours.

What I'd forgotten, I guess, is that these differences in style and habit are JUST FINE. Certainly, I'll find it easier to get along with certain people, just as Little Girl will, and obviously, if I think that there is a truly adverse effect resulting from any of her relationships, I will intervene with dismayingly majestic PARENTAL INTERFERENCE tactics, and will continue, until a conclusion that's satisfying to ME emerges.

But when it is a matter of style and habit, I'm going to have to buy the damn book or just wing it, and in either case, I'm going to have to be convincing at it, and mindful that the differences between us all are what make life interesting, and the more people we can interact with successfully, the better, because it is one less difference with the potential to convince us—even temporarily—that "our way" is better ... when most often it is only different.

What Little Girls Want

Little Girl has a little friend—though, frankly, neither one of them is little for her age—she's known since the tender age of ten months or so. They attended the same daycare for four years, and then parted ways to attend their respective kindergartens, separated by a mere twenty miles of distance that obviously felt as far away as the moon at first.

They spent so much time growing up together, and bonded so strongly, that I knew I would have to try to make sure they had a chance to see each other later, and I was very glad when Junior's mother agreed. We haven't been able to get together as often as either one of us—or the girls—would like, but thus far, it seems like the girls have managed to form one of those elusive, rare friendships that can stand up to time and distance, which makes it all the more precious.

Earlier in the year, when I still believed in "regular income" and hadn't yet been served a hearty helping of "Layoff Surprise," I promised Little Girl a trip to a certain water park with Junior, presuming a mutually-acceptable time could be agreed upon. And inspite of the dictates of (common sense and a complete lack of interest on my part, I fully intended to go through with it, even after I'd had more than my fill of unemployment pie. However, I failed to account for Other People's capacity to plan far, far better than me, and by the time I went to book a room at the inn, the only remaining space was in the manger.

(Not being religious enough to believe I'd get rain-free skies if I signed up for a spot at Ye Olde Campground O' Fun—especially considering our tent developed an eight-inch RIP in its debatably "waterproof" floor just two weeks ago, I understandably declined this opportunity. Not to mention, they had a two-night-stay requirement. Umm. NO.)

So it was with much trepidation that I broached the topic with Little Girl on the drive home from summer school yesterday. I'd prepared a lengthy and kid-friendly list of local alternatives—including, Horror of Horrors, lunch at Chuck E. Cheese®—but I'd barely launched into the preliminaries when Little Girl's initially-crestfallen reflection brightened a little.

"You mean Junior and I can still play?"

"Oh yes!" I said. "I'll check with her mom, of course, because this is a big change, but you can even camp, even if it rains, because I'll set up the tent in the living room, and we'll make hot dogs on the stove and S'mores in the microwave, and ..."

Again, Little Girl stopped me.

"Oh, that's GREAT, Mommy!" she said, and I didn't need to glance into the rearview mirror this time, because I could hear her sincere happiness in her voice. "That's all great," she went on, "but what really matters is that I get to spend time with my friend."

I am seldom lost for words, even though I sometimes choose not to speak the vilest ones, sometimes, but I am even more rarely unable to speak at all. But this ... this was SO sweet, and so unexpected of a gift, that all of my anticipation of having to convince Little Girl of the palatability of my (much) revised plan got caught up in the sticky, incredible NICEITY of my young daughter's simple understanding and honest appreciation of what was REALLY important, and I actually started to cry.

Oh, she still wants that trip I promised, and she'll get it, when I’ve got a clue and a steady paycheck. But in the meantime, she GETS it. And that made it all okay for me, too.

Even *shudder* Chuck E. Cheese.

What Little Girl Learned From The Demolition Derby

So Little Girl's daddy, Mr. & Mrs. Camo, and Little Girl met up at a not-too-distant demolition derby awhile back. If you're not acquainted with the curious rural tradition that IS the "demo derby," let me summarize it for you: decrepit, graffiti-ized, glass-free cars smash into each other in a small muddy pit, and the last one moving (or the last one that bashed into another) wins. One might say that it's a civilized means of exorcising one's "road rage," but one would only be kidding oneself; it's pure good ol' boy—and girl!—entertainment, and it doesn't need or want to be more.

That being said, I could give a crap about any old demolition derby, especially ones that are held in "dry" arenas, even if I do understand the logic behind not wanting people who've just backed their crapmobiles—high-powered and reinforced though they certainly are—into one another. However, how are non-interested parties like myself supposed to tolerate three or more HOURS of this mud-flinging chaos without alcohol, hmmmm? Right. That's why I didn't go; I max out after ONE such event, and this was one of THREE that the aforementioned group had opted to attend.

Anyhoo, on the day following the demo derby, Little Girl's daddy was synopsizing the events for me (no, I didn't ask, thankyouverymuch), and he included a little sidebar about how Little Girl had been chastising Mr. Camo about his repeated use of a certain word and/or phrase (Little Girl's daddy wouldn't say which, lest he spoil the story).

"He kept saying a BAD WORD," Little Girl affirmed, entering the room, her hair in sleepy disarray, although it did not, fortunately, appear to be mud-crusted as well.

"So we asked her if she could spell it," Little Girl's daddy continued. "We had her write it down!"

Yes. Isn't it GRAND when parents take such an active and creative role in their child's edumacation?

"And I did," Little Girl nodded, proudly.

"Super," I drawled sarcastically as I tried not to think about whether this particular "sentence enhancer" would be making its debut during "What I Did This Summer" exercises in school.

"No, she butchered it," Little Girl's daddy corrected. "We saved it for you, to see if you could read it."

My ability to decipher Little Girlese thus challenged, I dismissed my future parenting demerits from mind and demanded to see the script. A small crisis ensued when the paper could not be located in Little Girl's daddy's pockets or wallet, but the day was saved after a brief detour out to the Tardmobile (it still runs!).

I took the paper and read:sunofabesh
"Son of a bitch!" I said, and turned to Little Girl to add, "That's very good!"

Yes, I praised my child for her ability to sound out school-unacceptable vulgarity. Hey. She's come a LONG WAY, baby! And honestly, it's not like she hasn't heard it before.

Since the can o' spelling worms was already opened, I decided we should take it to the next level.

"So did they tell you what it means?" I asked.

"Yes," Little Girl answered, nodding sagely. Then, "Wait. No." She frowned, and turned towards her daddy—as if reading my mental script exactly—"Daddy, what DOES it mean?"

wyo: *exit stage left, laughing*

All Empathies Great And Small

With Little Girl and Neighbor Girl fully engaged in water-based activities just outside the window, I had slipped into the mind-numbing mundanity of dish-washing. There's something a little bit meditative about certain routine household tasks, I think, and while it certainly doesn't alleviate the boredom, it does make for a break, of sorts, from the general unstoppableness of my mind's standard, vulture-like circling.

So I was doubly shocked when the screaming started—that panic-pitched, rocket-boosted, EXPLOSIVE screaming that is so instantly distinguishable from the happy screams I'd been hearing, and anticipating hearing more of. I barely had time to turn and register Neighbor Girl's subdued—and alone!—presence still outside the window when the door flew open as if a tornado had come visiting, and Little Girl rapidly limped inside, tears pouring down her face like a salty, miniaturized version of the Slip 'N Slide on the lawn.

"A bee!" she sobbed, the fever-pitch of her voice not calming in the slightest. "I stepped on a bee! AND IT STUNG ME!" she added, rather unnecessarily.

After establishing—or doing a reasonable approximation of such—that the bee had been a lone renegade of the honey variety, and not a nest full of angry yellow-jackets or some increased magnitude of awfulness, I left Neighbor Girl to her own devices outside the window and gave Little Girl my complete attention in addition to the sympathy I'd already dispensed.

It took one bee-sting-wipe—and thanks to my parents for arming me with these miraculous, individually-wrapped numbing pads—a few applications of a bag of crushed ice, and many hugs, but Little Girl's pain did ease, and so, finally, did her tears. Her big toe showed no signs of swelling or reddening beyond the initial sting-mark, so I was wiping her face with tissues and preparing to send her back to rejoin Neighbor Girl, when a sudden look of shocked horror raced across her face.

Her voice trembling, she said, "Oh no! The bee! Is he going to ... he's going to die, isn't he?"

I could hardly believe that after the shrieking agony with which she'd entered the house that she was about to depart it, shedding tears for the insect that had caused it. And yet, I could absolutely believe it, for this child of mine has more empathy in her bee-stung toe than some people have in their entire bodies, and their very souls.

I quietly told Little Girl that yes, certain bees did die after they were compelled to sting, and although we couldn't know for sure since we didn't know what kind of bee had stung her, it very likely would die. But, I added, it was no fault of hers, because if she had known the bee was there, she would not have stepped on it; it had been an accident.

"And he didn't mean to sting me, either," she said, loosely translating what I'd told her about instinct and nature. "He just had to, even though I didn't mean to step on him."

Apparently reassured, she returned to her play shortly thereafter, and I returned to my dishes, thinking that if there was no event too small for empathy, then there just might be no event too great, either.

A Shockingly Degenerate Conversation

Little Girl and her daddy have several shared obsessions of the vegetable variety. Which is strange enough, but given that one of them is asparagus—a lovely vegetable, though not generally a childhood favorite—it seems all the more weird. And that makes it fit right in around here.

Anyway, another veggie that they're both passionate about—a more understandable one, too—is sweet corn. Thus, summer is as much of an anticipated gardening season as spring, and there is much to-do and preparing of the soil, and planting of seeds in one—or is it two?—week staggerings, so that the sweet corn patch will resemble those cellphone ads with the bars of varying heights and the harvest will be extended over many decadent weeks.

This is all well and good, but Little Girl and her daddy are hardly alone in the neighborhood in their adoration of the humble corn-bearing stalk. There are a large number of roving raccoons who are so eager to taste the luscious sweet corn that they think nothing of tearing the corn stalks right off at their bases to indulge in the sweetness of the earliest kernels.

It took but one season of such blatant and vicious thievery—wherein not even strategically planting Bad Dog near the patch, restrained, of course would deter the free-loading coons—for Little Girl's daddy to make the not-insubstantial investment in a raccoon-proportioned electric fence. And that is why we have a VERY long extension cord running from the house, past the compost piles, to the somewhat-distant sweet corn garden subdivision.

With the initial installation of the fence came a bit of a quandary: how to test it. Little Girl and I staunchly refused to do that which Little Girl's daddy would not do himself, and while the Professional Engineer did offer an official fence-tester, Little Girl's daddy would not be satisfied with anything but an actual animal tester.

Enter Bad Dog.

While I did, at first, protest the repeat exercise this year—last year's initial testing being performed without my knowledge—I changed my tune after Bad Dog's disturbing pee-trail performance, and thus, I was not surprised when Little Girl's daddy announced the following day, as a slightly subdued Bad Dog looked on, "Test Do