A family moved into the house from hell next door and they seem really nice. They are renters and I have no problems with renters, I am good like that. I don’t need to have proof of indebtedness for a house, prior to my making snap judgements as to whether I like people or not. I just wing it.
I am pretty sure it is a gift. If people are not envious of it, they should be. I save so much time by ignoring any facts that get in the way of my ability to judge others. Not that I am always right but people get way too caught up in winning. I may not be the best judge of friends but in my own defence … bruises heal and I am pretty good with make-up.
I would like to be able to add “…and I have always been right!” but my track record with picking friends this past year or so has really sucked. I have the deep bruising to prove it!!!
Anyway, next door … renters … deep bond of “meh whatever” … they have this little red headed girl who cracks me up. She is quite opinionated and fearless about her world. Derek, my hubby, took over some lemonades to welcome them into the neighbourhood. The mother was pleased, but had never heard of them before so he was explaining that they were like a lemon but much sweeter and you could eat them like an orange. He assured her if she didn’t want to eat them she could use them for juice. The mother wasn’t convinced she would like to eat them being as she was old enough to be distrustful of older men bearing fruit and making dubious sounding promises, but she loved lemonade and thanked him again.
A little hand tugged on my husband’s shirt and he looked down into the big blue eyes of the little red haired girl.
“I am pots -i-tive that I wuv ’em.” she said. “I wuv eveweething. My mum says I am a good eater.” She was nodding and during the nanosecond that she gave him to consider what being a “good eater” meant, she moved to the visual demonstration part of the meeting and had grabbed a lemonade and bit into it, through the skin and all. Without missing a beat she pulled the piece from her mouth, chewed the edible off the skin and insisted, “see?”
“I weally wub ’em.” She wanted my husband to know. Basically any food was good with her, in case he had any more food he would like to share.
My husband is a pretty easy push over. He is impressed with any kid that likes fruits and vegetables. It was the start of a beautiful relationship because he had a lot more fruit and vegetables from where the lemonades had come from.
I just thought she was incredibly cute. Sometimes, when she is in the back yard, she runs by the office window and I can see her. She reminds me of all the wonders of childhood and makes me smile.
One day, I heard her mother insisting she play outside when she clearly had other plans. Her father pulled out a doll in a pink carriage and tried to sell her on the fun of playing house where she could be the mommy and have a little baby to tend. She was having none of it.
Her father seemed perplexed that a little girl would not be thrilled with forced stereotypical play, especially when the carriage was pink and had swirls of princesses and things painted on it. Clearly he had not paid attention in fairy telling class. Nowhere in the tales of magic and happily ever after did it speak about tending babies. His wife came to his rescue and skipped the sugar coated sales pitch of what fun it would be and threatened her with bed if she did not march her butt outside to play with the doll and carriage.
I could tell by the way the little red haired girl took the carriage and kind of drove it/threw it, this way and that way until the doll went flying, that her body might be” marching her butt” but her soul was in “never surrender” mode. She shifted all her parental disrespect onto the doll and carriage and all that its oppressive representation wounded in her soul. This was one woman that would not be kept down. She gave the carriage a final fling into some bushes and marched back to where her parents were sitting on the patio, trying to have a quiet glass of wine. She stood defiant, her arms crossed.
Nothing pisses off defiance like being ignored. She stamped her foot.
Her mother heaved a sigh heard round the world. I ducked under my desk out of pure survival instinct and popped up moments later to see that the carriage and doll had been retrieved and mom was instructing her defiant little red head on how to “play nicely.” She wrapped the baby up in its blanket and tenderly placed it in the carriage speaking soothing calm words to it. Her daughter was looking at her with complete disbelief, having lost whatever respect she once had somewhere back in the tall grass and bushes where she had abandoned the doll earlier. Her mother could not be serious. These were supposed to be the best years of her life, where she was allowed childhood abandon and dreams of flying and magical things. Did she look like someone who could be fooled into thinking babies were anything other than a surrender of her dreams and her body?
She stood silent, arms at her side, her face expressionless while her mother continued to demonstrate how to play. She clearly could not hear the little girls eyes rolling. The red haired girl was still standing there motionless while her mother returned to her glass of wine. She had her instructions. Her parents focused on ignoring her.
Once she was sure her mom and dad were deep in conversation, the little red haired girl grabbed the doll carriage and drove it forward with great determination and speed, to the very back of the yard, right into the bigger trees where it could no longer be seen. She parked it . She looked at the carriage, back at her parents, and then stuck her tongue out at the carriage. She moved closer and stuck out her tongue again, this time with her hands on her hips and making a raspberry sound. Then she went up to the carriage and kicked at it, missed, and kicked again, connecting and sending the baby flying out of the seat onto the ground. She kicked it again, and you could tell it was a protest of everything it represented, a stupid doll, pink, babyhood, … everything! I wanted to high five her on behalf of women everywhere. She came out of the bushes, a couple of leaves caught in her hair, dusted her hands off and skipped into the house unnoticed.
You have to love a child who doesn’t let parental discipline and instruction get in the way of her emotional discharge. You have to respect a child who asks for what she wants and then sees to it that she gets it.
I am going to remember the lesson the doll carriage:
Never deviate or be distracted by anyone .. especially the parental units.
Give them enough wine and you can get away with anything.
Oh and hide the body in the bushes under the big trees, it gives you better coverage.