A Compliment from La Spills

Daddy, I love your grey hair.  It's like, kaboom!!  A firework on the side of your head.

We are SO not ready for this

So, the Spills said to me the other day, "I have a boyfriend."

"Oh," I said.  "Is it Brandon still?"

Brandon we don't care for that much.  Brandon is the six-and-a-half-year-old version of a punk.  He's the one who has spent a lot of time discussing Spilly's relative degree of heat.  Parents of six-year-olds can't handle that.

"Oh no," she said.  "My boyfriend is Ivan."

This was a new one.  "Ivan?  Who's he?"

Very loudly and with annoyance:  "I-VAN."

"Well," I said.  "What's he like?"

So she told me all about him.  How he liked Spiderman.  How he ran around yelling at recess.  And after the first few moments, when I had determined that he wasn't a serial killer, I confess that I didn't pay much attention. After all, Spills seems to be embroiled in romantic entanglements of the Grade One variety most of the time.  And "boyfriend" means a range of things at that age.  The guy you run around yelling with at recess, for example.  Or the guy you think is nice, but who doesn't know girls exist because he's too busy running around yelling.

So I was interested, when I opened her backpack this week, to see that Ivan had invited her to his birthday party.

"You need to call his mom right away," Spills said.  "Otherwise I can't go to the party."

"Well, I think we're good for a couple of days," I said.  "The RSVP says call by June 10th.  It's only the 3rd today."

After we'd worked out what RSVP meant, she said firmly, "No.  Ivan said his mom said if I didn't call by today, I can't go to the party."

"I don't think Ivan completely knows what he's talking about," I said.

"Yes, he does."

So, game old mom that I am, I called Ivan's house.  And there was no answer.  Nor was there an answering machine.

"I'll have to try later," I said.

And then, while I was calming down a next-to-hysterical Spills, the phone rang.

I answered it.  "Hello?"

"Uh, hi," said a voice.  "Did someone from here just call my house?"

"Oh.  Is this Ivan's mom?" I said.

"Yes, it is."

"This is -- " I said, and identified myself as Spilly's mom.

"Aha!" said Ivan's mom.  "Ivan knew it was you calling!  I'm not sure why."

"He must be psychic," I said.

Then we launched into a discussion about our two lovebirds, and it emerged that the relationship between our progeny was reciprocal and dramatic.  And it turned out that we were on the same page in terms of the potential entertainment value of the whole thing.

While we were talking, Spills was doing vigorous calisthenics all over the place.  She nearly turned herself into a sheepshank knot when I turned to her and said, "Ivan wants to know if he can say hi to you."

What followed demonstrated that the dynamic between males and females must surely be imprinted on them in the womb.  After a wild dance around the kitchen accompanied by a silent scream, Spills ricocheted to the phone, smoothed her hair, took the receiver, breathed out slowly, and said, in the most blase voice possible, "Oh, hi Ivan.  My mom said you wanted to talk."

How to Get Michael Jackson's Attention

Last night at dinner, Spilly said, "I had a dream about Michael Jackson.  He was over for a play date."

"Really?  What happened?"

"We were playing in my room, me and Michael Jackson and Donna."  (Donna is Spills' best friend/worst enemy, depending on what other factors are at play on any given day.)

"Were you having fun?"

"Yeeeesss.....except Donna kept talking to Michael Jackson and he wasn't paying any attention to me."

"Oh no."

"But I solved it.  I started singing 'Billie Jean.'  And Michael Jackson said, 'Hey!  That's my song!'"

Life After Death

Spills said to me at dinner tonight, "When I die, will you be waiting for me?"

Taken by surprise, I said, "I sure hope so."

"And what if I'm late?"

"I hope you will be late, because you had a really long life."

"Do you know what I'll say if I'm late?"

"What?"

"Sorry I'm late. Lots of traffic. Too many bones."

Beauty Regimen

So Spills said to me today, "Do you think I look beeyootiful?"

"Of course," I said.

"Really, really beeyootiful?"

I looked at her more closely. She was fluttering her eyelids at me.

"Is there something on your eyelids?"

"Yeeees, Madame," in her best southern drawl.

They were glittering.

"What have you got on your eyelids?"

"Liiiip gloss."

Trying not to laugh, I repeated, "Lip gloss?"

"And on mah fingahnails." Waving them at me.

"Wow. Did you put any on your lips?"

"Yes, ah deed. And on mah cheeks and mah forehead."

Now I looked closely, I could see that she was glistening in a sticky sheen.

"Now ah just have to wait for it to drah."

"You may be waiting awhile," I said. "Lip gloss doesn't really dry. It's meant to stay sticky and wet."

Silence. "Well, how can ah do anything if it stays sticky and wet?"

"I don't know. It's the price of beauty, I guess. You could probably flip through a magazine. I think beeyootiful ladies like to do that."

She considered this for a minute. "Naw, ahm gonna do craaaaafts."

Weekly Routine

Spills said to me tonight, "I have so many things, I don't know what I'm going to do when I'm grown up."

"Maybe you can do a few of them," I said.

"I'm going to have a weekly routine."

"Really?"

"On the weekend, I'm going to rest."

"Sure, of course."

"On Monday, I'm going to be a waiter. On Tuesday, I'll be an author. On Wednesday, I'm going to help out at the zoo."

"Cool."

"On Thursday I'll get ready, because on Friday I'm going to serve you food."

"You're going to serve me food?"

"You and Daddy will come over on Friday, and you'll have grey hair, and I'll serve you food."

"Nice."

"But you'll have to live nearby. Maybe next door. Or maybe in the basement."

"In this basement?"

"Yes."

"Will we finish it first? Because it's kind of dark and yucky down there."

Hands on hips. Severely: "MOM."

The conversation was ended here, so I don't yet know exactly where Spills plans to put me when I'm old and grey. As long as she feeds me, though, I guess I'll be fine.

Starting Young

Spills said yesterday, "Everyone in my class says Brandon and I are getting married."

"Oh?" I said. "Why are they saying that?"

"Because Brandon says I'm smoking hot."

I practically choked on my milk. "He says what?"

"He says I'm smoking hot. I know what that means, too."

"Really? What does it mean?" Hoping my five-year-old wasn't going to really tell me.

"It means he has a CRUSH on me. Is that what it means? Does it mean he has a CRUSH on me?"

"It could mean that."

"I know he has a crush on me, because he always wants to sit next to me in calendar. And when we're outside, he rescues me from Cole."

"Who's Cole?"

"Cole's my boyfriend."

"Cole is? What about Brandon?"

"No, Brandon RESCUES me." Very patiently. "Cole chases me, and then I chase Cole, and then Brandon rescues me."

"I see."

Later, when Spills was in bed, I shared this interesting information with Daddy. Daddy announced that he wanted to have words with Brandon. And Cole.