Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Daniel and the Real Girl

I love my urban residential neighborhood.  

Kids, dogs, trees, old people, young couples, martini bars, dive bars, and the occasional homeless guy... they all weave together into a chaotic charm that stole my heart a decade ago. 

On any given day, I might feed six or seven kids lunch, and then have them vanish into a house down the block for Popsicles.  The sidewalks are littered with every two-wheeled contraption ever to come out of Target, plus a couple kid-invented hybrids and dumpster diving gems.

This summer we got a new addition.  

Daniel.

He lives two blocks away, and you can hear him from three blocks away.  He shows up regularly, eyeing my produce ("Yes, you can have another tomato Daniel") and bringing curious offerings (screw-off jar lids, baby bottles, a car tire complete with hubcap.)  He calls me Lizzy and sees no reason to knock before entering.  

Yesterday I was sitting at my desk in the front room, typing a work e-mail while the kids and dog invented games on the porch swing.

"Lizzy, Lizzy!  Miss?  Oh, there you are.  Look what I brought!"

And there she was.  

All 5'2" of her fully inflated.  Long blond hair.  Fully functional orifices (front and back!)  Curiously paraplegic looking legs.  All in Daniel's 8-year-old arms.

Pause.


"All right, Daniel, go on outside now."  I took the doll (Naomi, because I think she needs a name, poor naked thing) and put her in the closet.

Outside I could hear the boys debating.  "Should we destroy her?"  "No, we should put clothes on her and then destroy her!"

I knew I should be horrified, but I leaned against the closet door and laughed so hard I cried.  

I knew I should be coming up with a plan (Poke her with a pin and put her in a dumpster?  Carry her to Daniel's house and tell whatever adult happened to be around that Daniel said he found her in a tree?  Sell her on Craigslist?), but all I did was send my friends picture messages from my phone.

Thirty-six hour later, Naomi is still in the closet.

And I really have no idea what I'm supposed to do about her.
 

Thursday, August 13, 2009

Oedipus

I can't remember having a crush on my dad, but my sister certainly did. She simply could not understand why he was unwilling to marry her...

It's a common thing, right? Children want to marry their opposite-gender parent?

I expected it to happen to Firstborn in his pre-school years. But it wasn't until he was eight, showing me his Tarzan tricks on the playground swing, that he announced, "When I grow up, I want to marry you, Mom."

Then Sprite piped up, "When I grow up, I want to marry Firstborn."

Huh.

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.
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We were at McDonald's Playland the other day- that glorious confluence of corn syrup and freon that affords over-heated moms a few minutes respite- when I noticed Firstborn huddled in the corner, deep in conversation with some girl. She was adorable, with her earnest eyes and her bandanna headband.

"Hi mom. This is Layla."

"Nice to meet you, Layla." And Layla tipped her head back and laughed, with the most unadulterated joie de vivre I've seen in ages.

"Layla has ADDHD, just like me, mom. She talks too much, just like me."

And Layla grinned and laughed again. "I thought he was, like, twelve or something, but he's only eight. Cuz he's so tall, you know, and he has a big vocabulary, so he talks like a 12-year old. But then I was surprised that he's only eight and I'm ten and I'm changing schools next year because my old teacher used too much profanity and I wish he was going to my new school because I'm still waiting to meet a friend for my new school."

Pause.

"I know I talk too much."

More laughing.

They exchanged phone numbers and e-mail addresses and made plans to be in touch within the hour, and the whole time I was staring at this scatter-brained, joyful girl, and wondering why she seemed so familiar.

And then it dawned on me.

She was me.