While driving the kids to school this morning.
Me, to Evy: I’m impressed with how fast you got ready this morning.
Evy: Do you like my shirt?
Me: Yeah, I love that shirt.
Even though I said I loved her shirt she was still compelled to describe it to me: It says “I’m the peanut butter to your jelly” and they’re giving each other a high five.
(It’s a pink shirt with a drawing of two slices of bread high-fiving each other. And yes, one slice is covered in peanut butter and the other with jelly.)
Me: That’s how I feel about Mom.
Evy: That’s how I feel about a boy at school.
Whoaaaa…really? What’s his name?
Herb. He might feel the same, but he thinks I’m mad at him.
(Honestly, I forgot the little dude’s name, but Herb seems fitting because I said so.)
Why would he think that you’re mad at him?
Well, he shot a rubber band and it hit me in the head.
So, are you mad at him for that?
It wasn’t fun, but I’m not mad at him.
I think you should shoot a rubber band at him. Then you tell him, “Now we’re even.”
So, it’s official. Love when you’re nine is pretty much the same as when you’re an adult. Except that “shooting a rubber band at my head” turns into “called me a slut then roofied my best friend and had sex with her in the back of his Honda Civic.” Either way, I’m here for you and happy to offer top notch guidance. If any of you readers have problems with the boys or girls of your fancy shooting rubber bands at your head, stealing your tater tots, cutting in line in front of you at the cafeteria or beaning you in the face with a dodge ball at recess you let me know. I’ll tell you what to do.