Exponential Petticoat Junction

Summer has begun and the windows in our neighborhood are open. Sam awakes in the morning to the random giggles and cries of the girls next door. He climbs out of his crib, runs to the window and in his best Marlon Brando circa Street Car Named Desire yells, “E-l-l-l-l-l-l-l--a.” He screams for her as if this is the very acme of his adventure and in order to get the girl (who actually is the “girl next door”), he must divulge the depths of his love and despair. And then he repeats this performance after his nap.

We live next door to three of the prettiest little girls—Cassidy, Ella and Sophia. Next door to them live three more girls.

Not to dismiss the girls' merits, but as a Once-Upon-a-Time-English-Major I can’t help but notice that we are living in the classic fairy tale plot of the three sisters. They are challenged by beasts, enchanted forests, and their other sisters to meet their true love. I just didn't think this sort of fairy tale behavior would start so early.

The other day, I caught him trying to climb the fence.

Dave insists that the girls are encouraging him. He says he saw Ella swing open their side door, look up to our 2nd story window and in a hushed voice repeat, “Sam” until he ran to greet her. But who wouldn’t want a boy yelling your name over the rooftops?

And Ella, What a gal! She’s three and sassy and full of her own self--a regular heroine in the making.

This morning (7/31) I woke up to Sam talking out his bedroom window to Ella. She was in her bathroom. They happily chatted through the screens. I joined them. Ella preceded to show and tell the contents of her purse, piece by piece and mostly to me. In response, Sam reached up to my face, put his hand on my cheek and said ever so gently, "Mom, Go away."

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Activities

There are certain things you tell yourself before you become a parent that you absolutely won’t do when you become a parent but all of which you will inevitably do. You promise that you won’t discuss the frequency, color, and texture of your baby’s excrement with the same erudition as you might say about Abstract Expressionism. You promise yourself that you will ask about other people’s lives before you unleash the minutia of Life with Baby. You promise yourself that in ear shot of innocent ears that you will at least spell rather than say expletives. Then you hear your toddler say, “Shit Shit Shit” for no apparent reason other than you just said it and didn’t realize it. If you had spelled it and then he had spelled, you could claim he was a genius.

One of my many promises to my pre-parent-self was to keep my job title as Mommy from becoming Chauffer. I don’t like being in the car or driving cars and part of me has been secretly awaiting the grand finale of our oil obsessed nation. Added to my aversion to internal combustion engine is the necessity of strapping children down as if it were a moon launch. You don’t get to BE anywhere, because you are always GOING everywhere.

Well, all I can say, is “Shit Shit Shit” one more promise out the freakin’ car window. The pictures speak for themselves.