“You need a Thunderbird, Mama.”

“Oh?”

“Yes! I love Thunderbirds!”

She loves Thunderbirds. Well, at least it has a bird in it. Say motorcycle. M-O-T-O-R-C-Y-C-L-E. Then we’ll have something to talk about,  kid.

She also informed me this morning that she wants a gold tooth. Just like the tough cat in Garfield. Egads! She knows how to shock her mother.

And, she’s been on a two week campaign for a DS game system. She’s gotten so fixated on this that she’s taken to cutting out rectangles from construction paper and drawing the controls and screen on, then cutting out a little pointer stick. She’s succeeded in getting me to feel a touch guilty, but little else. Good luck, kiddo.

That’s the mantra chirping ’round the house in these parts. It’s the kiddo’s “moving up” ceremony today. I’m not so sure she’s excited about being a first grader so much as she’s excited about summer off. We both gleefully tweet “…five more days…(or four more…or three more, and so on…)” and the other will finish, “and no more school!”, practically whipping our hands together and rubbing them maniacally. “And then, ” the kiddo adds, “We’ll be TOGETHER!” Ahhh. We’re just happier that way. Together, all of the time. For awhile longer.

First grade. She asked me what it was like last night in bed, and I didn’t know what to say. “It’s just…more, I guess”, said I.

I wasn’t crazy about first grade. It was a big switch from a tiny schoolhouse with grades k-6, to a big, big building that sheltered k-12. I had to ride the bus. I hated it. I remember, on one of the first days, seeing poor little T., who’d just started kindegarten, getting beat up outside the bus in the afternoon by Beth Disotoll, who was the same age and twice her size. The damned bus driver wouldn’t let me out of the bus so I could clock her one. Can you imagine the frustration of being stuck in a box behind a window, watching your kid sister getting thumped? I was seething. But anyone who bothered us inside the bus got theirs. I was a ferocious kid.

Anyway, on the first day of first grade, I ran to someone who I thought was good ol’ Jaime, my best pal at the old school, but wound up being someone else. I had to eat in a big cafeteria with kids I didn’t know, and without dear Mrs. Thoma, the lone cafeteria lady, who sat right next to me at lunchtime, coaching me to eat more, while wincing at the huge globs of mustard I’d pile on my hamburgers. It just wasn’t the same. It got better, but it was never the same.

I don’t think the kiddo has to worry about anything like that though. For at least one more year, the school will be in a tiny building that it shares with a Montessori school. She’ll still be in the highest grade level the school offers. And Mommy will still drive her to school. We can wait for the new school year, though. We’ve got stuff to do.

Have a happy summer, peeps.

My kiddo is obsessed these days with sports cars. Sports cars. I’m not horrified;  more mystified than anything. Her father once owned a Porsche for a year without his then wife knowing. Isn’t that wierd? Anyway, I think she has maybe a bit of his need for thrills (ok, Mama has some degree of that going on, too). Mama likes motorcycles, not moving boxes on wheels. Mama likes the wind in her face, and the feel of the two wheels careening curves on the road. But Mama’s not telling her that. Yet, anyway. I remember the closing shot in  one of my favorite movies, Orlando (whatever happened to Sally Potter?), with flame haired  Tilda Swinton astride a motorcycle, kiddo  in the side car. And I thought, “That’s it. I want that.” And maybe, sometime, we’ll do that.

The kiddo has a favorite pair of pants. They are black sweat pants that she insists on wearing exclusively. It’s apparently a comfort thing. She likes the elastic legs. Because, the bottoms of one’s pants are not to touch the ground (even Mama’s, though Mama likes hers that way. Mama, she counseled, needs to get a belt. Because leg bottoms are not to touch earth. Right.). Shoelaces are not to touch earth, either. They are to be tripled tied, or more, because she can’t have that. Anyway, she likes the black pants so much, that she hides them from me, lest I, gasp(!), wash them. For only the third time this year, I’d managed to get her into a dress last week. With the pants underneath.

The teen years frighten me a little bit on the rare occasion that I think of them. Fast cars. Willfulness. Yikes! But I fully expect that, like her Mama and her Aunty, she’ll do an about face and completely girl out, and embrace all feminine accouterments, and we’ll someday have a good laugh about those pants. I can wait. For now.

“So when you catch this fish, what are you going to do with it? Eat it?”

“NO! Of course not! I’m not eating him!”

“Oh. Well, what are you going to do with it, then?”

“I’m…I’m going to….I’m going to…..SLEEP WITH IT!”

Not in my bed, she’s not.

I’ve decided to get the kiddo a fishing pole as an end of the school year present. Seems cruel to just let her play at it with her cute but woefully inadequate homemade job. If she’s willing to dig worms, I’m taking her. I’ve already consulted with Uncle Will regarding  kid friendly gear. Though I forgot to ask about what to do when and if she actually catches anything. Do fish bite? I guess that’s a silly question…assuming that, if they’ll bite a skinny wad of worm, surely they’ll go for a nice, pink, juicy finger. Gulp.

I see this as a healthy pursuit though. And what a time eater. In nice, fresh air. I like this. I’ve come to have creeping—though not doubtful—thoughts about this, however. Aside from having to actually somehow get this thing off  of the line, then I’ll have to find something to gut the thing with. Not a job for the kiddo, though I’m absolutely sure she’ll be a very enthusiastic audience. Blood and Guts! Decapitation! Yahoo! I suppose I’ll have to break down and get a grill, too—surely she’ll want to eat this thing, what with her hunting obsession and all. That thing is not stepping into my kitchen. So then I’ll have to learn how to actually start a charcoal fire. Thank heavens for google, right? I’ll try not to fret about bones. I’ll sit at dinner and be the proud mother I’ll be when she hooks one. Because I will be. But, like baiting hooks and digging for worms, she’ll be on her own when it comes to consuming the big catch. Sorry, babe.

But I’m thinking of the upcoming Kentucky Derby, which I try to watch every year. They’re underdogs, but don’t you just love names like Chocolate Candy and Mine That Bird? I’m rooting them.

The kiddo grabbed my peanut butter and jelly sandwich out of the bag in the back seat this morning on the way to school and decided to lick all of the jelly from it. I guess that’s nothing compared to what my Uncle Jim used to do to my mother and sibs back in the day. He’d sneak down late at night and take all of the meat—from at least five sandwiches–out of their lunchboxes. Grandma Leila switched to PB&J after that. Definitely a Russell-ism (mom’s maiden name). My father, often after a visit to my grandparents, or during a mild argument,  would invoke that–Russellism…or, “not the Russells! Of course not!“. I don’t think—with the exception of Grandma and one or two others—that they gave the impression of any expectation of royal treatment…but the clan certainly expected any quirks (and there were lots of them), and any mistakes or character flaws (they existed but were often denied), to be not forgiven—no, that wasn’t good enough—but overlooked. The quirks—you just had to live with them. Some fell in love with them. I have to think that’s one of my mother’s more loveable charms.

This morning:

Kiddo: I like my brown eyes. They’re like bears. They are brothers. And your  blue eyes? They’re sisters.

Sunday:

Know what I’m going to college for?

Ah….hmmm…to be a teacher?

Nope.

Doctor?

No.

Artist?

No! I’m going to college to be a hunter. And you can help me, Mama! You can hunt bears! And deer! We’ll EAT them! You want to hunt, Mama?

Only with my camera.

No!! No, you have to shoot them!

Right. I’ll shoot them with my camera.

No, Mama. You have to kill them, Mama! So we can eat them. Do people eat bears, Mama?

Some probably do. I don’t.

Well, you can stay with me, and I’ll help you. Ok?

Ah….

“Ohhhh, Mommy, can I get some gummy worms?”

“No, sweetie, you have a whole basketful of Easter candy.”

“Oh, but Mommy, I like gummy worms so I can pretend that I’m a robin.”

Oh. Precious, but somehow, shrewd. She knows how to get me.

Sunday morning, still in bed. Little sleepy head looks up to me with half lidded eyes fluttering and asks:

“Mama, how do weeble-wobbles sleep?”

Um, er…..

You’re out of luck, kid. Can’t find that answer anywhere in the manual.

It’s winter break and we’re chilling out; skating, playing board games, and watching flicks. We did see Coraline. It’s not a show for young children. Unless it’s the kiddo. It’s creepy in a sophisticated way, and visually beautiful and a tad crazy. It had a few boring (for me) moments, but otherwise, we both loved it. Fantastic animation, and Selick should just do animation for grownups. Seriously. There were many children as old as eleven around us, right, left, and in front…who announced to their parents their dislike and fright, and for that reason, I would not recommend it for the kiddie set. Oddly, I did not see one parent get up and leave with their kid, and I was sitting in the back row and would have noticed. Anyhoo, I poked the kiddo every few secs and would ask “are you ok?” …”yesssss, Mama”….she didn’t even take her eyes of the screen.

She also loves this short and can repeat Burton’s story/poem of Vincent by heart.

Interesting.

Actually, she’s informed me that there’s a Vincent finch in our future should her favorite finch (that would be Kisa, a very pretty grey and white pied male), reproduce with his lovely mate. Train ‘em young, I always say.