overheard

Yay North Carolina with your badass primary today. Go on wit’ ya bad self. Zoe and Lucy and I went to vote before school this morning, and they enthusiastically helped me push the touch-screen buttons on my electronic ballot. I would say “touch the box next to Person ABC” and they would do it, clearly delighting in their power. I saved the president choice for last, just to savor it a little — the first presidential primary in my long NC history to actually matter, and matter a lot, at that. Plus, although I knew who I was going to…

(I) Zoe: “Mama. In school yesterday we watched a movie about Philippe Petit. Me: “Who is Philippe Petit?” Zoe: “He walked on a tightrope between two big buildings. Did you know him when you lived in New York?” Me: “Sadly, no.” Lucy: “Did you know The Snowy Day won a gold medal for best drawing? Really. It did. It’s on the book. A gold medal. It’s called the Cawldercat.” Me: “Yes. I love that book. It’s been one of my favorites since I was a little kid.” Pause. Zoe: “Philippe Petit won a Cawldercat Medal too.” + + + +…

(Third installment in an apparent series.) Lucy has just cut herself with her scissors. Bactine and Band-Aids have been applied. The tears have stopped. What remains is Lucy’s desire to hear stories about times that Bob and I have cut ourselves with scissors. I tell her about the time I cut my thumb with an x-acto knife. I tell her about the time I cut my hand with a butcher knife while slicing a bagel. Zoe tells her about the time she cut her own-own hand in her own-own town when she was chopping cucumbers with her own-own mom.* Lucy…

Our children are both perfect angels. All the time. Except sometimes they’re, um, not. Lately, Lucy has been using some of her allotted “non-angel hours” to throw tantrums. And when I say tantrum, I don’t mean “I’m a two year old and I’m asserting my independence so I won’t let you put me in my car seat, I insist on getting in by myself” tantrums. I mean “I’m a five year old and I can hit, kick, scream, throw things with good aim and become inconsolably furious in 2.2 seconds if you dare to tell me that ‘no’ we’re not…

Bob and I are sitting in the living room. Zoe and Lucy are back in their bathroom or somewhere near it. Suddenly we hear a crash and the girls laugh loudly. Lucy (running out of the bathroom): “Whoa!!! Now that was a experiment!!!” (She looks up and sees us.) “Mama. Me and Zoe are gonna need smocks!!!” + + + Illustration from one of our favorites, The Orange Book, by Richard McGuire.

Saying goodnight to the girls last night, I offered my usual, “Goodnight girls. I love you. I hope you sleep like angels” sort of salutation. Lucy responded with what must have been the fondest thing she could wish for on my behalf: “Good night Mama. I hope it’s your birthday when you wake up tomorrow.”

(Second installment in an apparent series.) “Mama. Girls are prettier than boys. And. Boys are handsomer than pets.” — A little while later… In an attempt to commit this to memory so I could tell you about it tonight, I repeated it to her. “So Zoe. Girls are prettier than boys and boys are handsomer than pets?” “No mama. Girls are prettier than boys. And boys are handsomer than babies. And babies are handsomer than pets.”

“Mama. Girls love fruit and boys love cereal. And. Girls and boys love wood floors.” Illustration from Veer

The Scene: Dinnertime chez UpsideUp Zoe: “Mama? Did you marry Uncle Mike?” Me: “No sweetie. Uncle Mike is my brother.” Lucy: “That’s right. Mama married Papa.” Me: “Right.” Bob: “And she made the right choice.” Me: “Except Uncle Mike has a nicer car than Papa.” Zoe: “Yeah. But Uncle Mike doesn’t look where he’s going.” + + + I hate to tie sandbags to the spontaneity of that exchange, but I feel it important and relevant to disclose that Uncle Mike has not ever been in an accident that he caused. We have no idea what Zoe is talking about….

LUCY: “Mama. You remember that book we read? With the boat?” ME: “The Magic Treehouse book? About the Vikings?” LUCY: “No not the Vikings. The one with the people in the boat. They rowed. In a river. With the man who told them what to do. With the war.” ME: “Ohhhh. Revolutionary War on Wednesday.” LUCY (holding up a nickel): “Yes! Look Mama. This looks like that man. George Washington.”