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."