Boo fell in love again yesterday. Not to worry: it happens all the time.
It was the first summer meeting of Boo’s kiddie-acrobatics class and W–, the new boy, was a bit teary. Boo and W– didn’t exchange two words during class, though afterward she and I both knuckle-knocked him in a show of support. (That’s how we roll out here in ‘Frisco. Leftist fist bumps are de rigeur.) That was the extent of their relationship.
That night, though, she would not stop talking about him.
“W– was crying today. It was his first day as a Tootsie Roller.”
I’d cry if I were called a “Tootsie Roller,” too, but in this case it means that he’s reached the age group where mom and dad watch from the sidelines instead of joining in: The toddler-acrobat rite of passage.
“W– was wearing a striped shirt today. And I have a striped shirt, too!”
On and on like that, and of course she planned some future dates.
“I’m going to see W– again next week. And I’ll see B–, too!”
Oops, change of subject! B– is another boy, almost five, whom we only know because he was visiting a neighbor last week. Again, Boo and B– didn’t even play together but nevertheless, she’s obsessed:
“I’m bigger than B—.”
“B— has a baby sister.”
“B— doesn’t have curly hair like M—.”
M— is a boy who graduated from Boo’s school; they met about twice. On and on this goes: Boo talks constantly about boys she hardly knows, and rarely about friends of either gender she actually loves.
I suspect the universe of giving us a taste of what we can expect from middle school — “But dad, he doesn’t even know I’m aliiiive!” Forewarned, I can now come up with a more sensitive response than “Yeah, you’re probably right.”