This weekend was a veritable cornucopia of childish strangeness. It all started innocently enough. Matilda wanted to have some friends over to practice a dance routine she and her friends hope to bring to the school’s talent show at the end of the year.
“Sure. How many kids did you want to invite?”
“Eight.”
Heart seizure as visions of sugar-high eight year old girls are dancing through my house, tearing things off the walls and ganging up on the weakest girl and eating her alive. While I was seizing on the floor, mommy sat down and discussed the whole deal with Matilda and had the number reduced to four girls, three of whom could make it.
I love it when Matilda has friends over. I get to act weird and embarrass her. And every parent knows that the actual event is never quite as stressful as leading up to the event, which is often painful. You have to clean, prepare for your house to be judged by other parents (and we were in mid-Christmas decorating), awkward conversations at the door with parents you really don’t know, kids with strange fears, etc.
But this time it was different. Because they were going to be working on a dance, Matilda had been practicing the song non-stop all week. It’s a song by Hillary Duff. A former Disney Channel Sweetheart, now full-fledged Pop-Tarte. Oddly enough, most of her songs were co-written and produced by the same people who worked on Liz Phair’s new album. It’s cute when Hillary Duff sings about puppy love, but downright disturbing when Liz Phair does the same.
“Matilda, do you want oatmeal for breakfast?”
“Ready for the big time, ready for the small / Whatever's comin' to me, I'll be ready for it all / Sometimes it ain't easy, sometimes its not polite / Some days I don't get it, some days I get it right . . .”
“Does that mean no?”
It was non-stop, twenty-four hours a day belting out of this tune. In the car, in the bathtub, in the hallway, watching TV, while reading, going to the bus stop, brushing teeth or, worse, singing LOUDLY over whatever is being played in the car. I think I know the words to this song better than she does now.
Now, Matilda is a very talented girl. She’s smart, funny, artistically creative, and sensitive. You name it, she has that talent. She can do almost anything.
Almost. Singing, I fear, is not her strong suit. To be fair, none of us can. But by the time Saturday rolled around I would have done anything to have gotten her not to sing.
We were sitting in my office, burning the song onto a CD so each girl could practice the routine at home. Whenever I would check the disc to make sure it burned properly she’d launch into singing it, at the top of her lungs.
“Please. I’m trying to burn the CDs! Can we give the song a rest for a while? Even Hillary Duff didn’t sing it that much.”
“Why do they call it burning? How does it work?”
Ah. She asked a geek question. I was so proud. I launched into an explanation of resins, aluminum platters, lasers, digital encoding, ones and zeros, spin speeds, you name it. The whole process right down to explaining how CD players read the data on the disc.
“So,” she said finally, looking a little glassy-eyed, “nothing actually melts? There’s no fire in the computer?”
Sigh. I should have known she just wanted to know why they called it “burning”. Not a technical discussion of CD technology.
The girls arrived, and they practiced in the basement. Poor Gertrude was beside herself. She desperately needed to be part of this group. But she was separated by six years in age, and a thousand years in motor skills. But still, she tried. She sat on the stairs in the basement, watching the big girls practice dancing. Sometimes she’d stand up and shake a leg a little, but for the most part she watched patiently. Hoping against hope that they might need her. That they might see her inner dancing talent and ask her to joining the group. And, for their part, those eight year old girls were fantastic. When they were finished they included Gert in their play, dressing her up, chasing her around and treating her like a little mascot. It was sweet.
Towards the end of the afternoon, they were playing some sort of hiding game. Walking through my house, I saw one of the girls hiding behind a bed (there was a mirror on the wall behind her, effectively making hiding useless). At the foot of the bed was Gertrude. She was laying face down on the ground, arms at her side perfectly still, her head under the bed, but the rest of her body sticking out into the room.
“Gert, what are you doing?”
“I hiding under the bed!” And she was, effectively. She was face down on the floor. She couldn’t see anyone; therefore no one could see her. And she was still. Totally still. Except for her left foot, which was wiggling back and forth as if to announce her inner giggle.
Ten minutes later the other girl was back with the gaggle of kids. But Gertrude was still missing. I went to find her and there she was, still partially under the bed. Face down. Still.
“Gertrude, come on. We have to get moving.”
“I,” she said emphatically, “hiding under the BED!”
Discuss
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