*Isobel is going to summer camp this July- it’s half days at her school. They do fun stuff like art and crazy sock day, ice cream socials and bounce house days. This morning she was looking at the calendar and…*
“Oh! Today’s the bouncy house! Hmmm… I wonder what’s happening on Mystery Monday?”
“Well, you probably have to solve a murder.”
*She looks at me, aghast.*
“Mom! They don’t do that at summer camp!”
*Over breakfast, Isobel and I were discussing if we slept well last night. I didn’t, but she did. Is had a suggestion for me…*
“Well, Mom, you can just think about what it would be like to be a squirrel before you go to sleep. Or an owl.”
“A squirrel?”
“Yeah, like, I have a tiny toothbrush and a little tiny tub with tiny bubbles, and then! Fall asleep.”
“Wow. That’s how you put yourself to sleep every night?”
“Yeah. You should try it.”
“I’m totally going to.”
*Isobel comes home from school today all excited- her class had been discussing the very real possibility of a snow day tomorrow. Her teacher had a few suggestions: put a spoon under a pillow, put ice cubes in the toilets, and wear your pajamas inside out and then… boom! A snow day will appear. I’ve never heard any of this shit before, so Isobel had to explain it all to me, very patiently (well, a snow day did hang in the balance)…*
“Mommy! I need ice! And a spoon.”
“What, why?”
“Because that’s how we get a snow day.”
“Um. Okay. Here’s your stuff,” I say, handing her a bowl of ice and a spoon.
Isobel wanders off for a while, then comes back in the kitchen, where I’m finishing my sociology homework. She puts the bowl in the sink and sits down at the table.
“Mom. I put a spoon under your pillow.”
“What? Why?”
“Well, if I put a spoon under a pillow, we get a snow day. And I can’t put it under my pillow, I move around too much. And not Dad’s, he’ll never notice it. Yours is perfect.”
“That’s not really how it works, baby. But okay, please stick a note on top of my pillow to remind me about the spoon?”
“Sure, Mommy!” She runs off.
*Later, at bedtime, she put on her pajamas inside out, having long since flushed the melted ice cubes down the toilets. After she’s all ready for bed, I get a text from the school letting me know they’re closed tomorrow. I tell her on the monitor and she replies…*
“See? It worked!”
*Isobel comes home from school today all excited- her class had been discussing the very real possibility of a snow day tomorrow. Her teacher had a few suggestions: put a spoon under a pillow, put ice cubes in the toilets, and wear your pajamas inside out and then… boom! A snow day will appear. I’ve never heard any of this shit before, so Isobel had to explain it all to me, very patiently (well, a snow day did hang in the balance)…*
“Mommy! I need ice! And a spoon.”
“What, why?”
“Because that’s how we get a snow day.”
“Um. Okay. Here’s your stuff,” I say, handing her a bowl of ice and a spoon.
Isobel wanders off for a while, then comes back in the kitchen, where I’m finishing my sociology homework. She puts the bowl in the sink and sits down at the table.
“Mom. I put a spoon under your pillow.”
“What? Why?”
“Well, if I put a spoon under a pillow, we get a snow day. And I can’t put it under my pillow, I move around too much. And not Dad’s, he’ll never notice it. Yours is perfect.”
“That’s not really how it works, baby. But okay, please stick a note on top of my pillow to remind me about the spoon?”
“Sure, Mommy!” She runs off.
*Later, at bedtime, she put on her pajamas inside out, having long since flushed the melted ice cubes down the toilets. After she’s all ready for bed, I get a text from the school letting me know they’re closed tomorrow. I tell her on the monitor and she replies…*
“See? It worked!”
*Isobel, like most kids, will sometimes come to me and complain that she’s bored. I used to try and point her to things she could do, or offer to teach her to clean the toilets (she always demurred, hmmm…) anyway, I try to distract her, or tell her to find something else to do.
About a year ago, I shared an epiphany with Isobel that I’d had when I was around 10. We were visiting my aunt for Christmas, and I went up to her and told her I was bored. Now, this aunt was a professional journalist, tall, slim, and imposing, with flame-red hair and icy blue Irish eyes. She smoked constantly, and had a modern house full of books. She had a sheltie and I just loved her. But I complained, as all kids do, and what she said to me stuck with me forever, and I haven’t been bored since. She said, “Boredom comes from within,” turned on her heel and walked away, leaving me there with my mouth open and my mind blown.
Now, when Is comes to me with boredom troubles, since she knows the story, I tell her, “Boredom comes from within,” and leave her to it. She usually finds something else to do.
Not today.*
“Mom, I’m bored.”
“Boredom comes from…” I pause, because Isobel holds up her hand to stop me.
“Look, Mom, I don’t want any of this ‘boredom comes from within’ stuff. I’m just bored.”
“Want to learn to clean the toilets?”
“MOOOOOOOOOOOOOM….”
*A few weeks ago, my friend gave me some caterpillars to watch for her while they were away. The bugs were supposed to make chrysalides and become beautiful Monarch butterflies that we could then release in her pollinator-friendly garden.
The first one hatched as we watched in awe, and then with mounting concern as the thing flopped around on the bottom of the jar, unable to right itself. I carefully poured the hatching butterfly and all the other chrysalides (all but 1 were on the floor of the jar) into the butterfly net habitat I’d bought in case they hatched while my friend was still away.
The butterfly, whom Isobel named Beauty, managed to climb up the side of the netting, where she hung for a day or so. Her wings were misshapen- curled up at the edges and stuck together. We decided that Beauty would be Isobel’s first pet. Yes, Is had been begging for years to get a kitten, but her first pet ended up being a disabled butterfly. Life is what happens when you’re making other plans, right?
Isobel and Beauty were the best of buddies- Beauty liked to sit in Is’s hand and just hang out and flutter a bit, then go back in her habitat and climb on leaves and enjoy sugar water.
3 days ago, the other one hatched. The other 3 chrysalides didn’t work out- 2 died and the last was a hideously deformed monster that only lived for a few minutes after emerging… who knew so many things could go so wrong with butterflies?
A lot, as it turns out. The new butterfly, named Shippy Whippy, can’t fly- it fell down the stairs yesterday when we released it, instead of gracefully flying away to enjoy an outdoor life pollinating the flowers. We returned Shippy to the butterfly habitat after I caught it as it flapped pitifully in circles on the ground.
Beauty died yesterday. When I broke the bad news to Isobel…*
She came over, looked at Beauty, who was sort of tipped over on the floor of the habitat, and asked, “Mom, are you sure she’s dead? She might just be sleeping.”
“Okay,” I said. “Should we just leave her there for a while?”
“Yes. Maybe butterflies are really heavy sleepers.”
“Okay.”
*Today, we got Beauty ready for her funeral. I sprayed her with a few coats of lacquer- Is wants to keep her body in the butterfly-shaped trinket box I bought to serve as her coffin. But, she doesn’t want to bury it- she wants to keep it in her room. I said okay. Is had a few questions while we prepared Beauty…*
“Mom, I’m really sad.”
“That’s okay, babe. It’s totally normal to be sad when your pet dies.”
“But, I don’t want you to try and cheer me up.”
“Okay. Can I just sit and be sad with you?”
“That would be okay.”
*She put her head on my shoulder and we sat a step down from the box Beauty’s body sat in, drying after the first coat of lacquer.*
“I wonder what it’s like to be dead.”
“I guess we’ll all find out eventually.”
“I bet it’s like sleeping, but never waking up.”
“That sounds AWESOME. Sign my ass up right now!” I slowly tipped over on the steps, eyes closed, next to Beauty’s box.
Is laughs.
“No! Mom! There’ll be no more hugs! You won’t be able to read any more books!”
“Wait a second. No snuggles? No more hanging out with you and Dad?”
“Nope.”
“Ah, then forget it.” I straightened up and turned Beauty over for another coat.
“Mom… And when you’re dead, the birds eat your blood… And you have to hang out in a coffin that’s hard, like Dracula, and there’s not even a blanket.”
“Oh, no way. I’m out. I’m gonna live forever, then.”
“Me, too.”
*We went out for dinner tonight and stayed out late. On the way home, while trying to spot wild beasts as we drove through the deep dark woods (which Isobel calls the ‘deep duck woods’), we started talking about what time we all go to sleep.*
“So, Daddy goes to bed the latest, and Mom goes to bed earlier, and I go to bed the earliest.”
“That’s right.”
“And so I get the most sleep, and Mom the middle, and Dad is last.”
“Okay, that sounds right.”
“Mom, there’s always a sleepy self in everyone.”
“Hahaha, yes, that’s true.”
*Is is home today with a cold, watching a movie by Universal Pictures. Between sniffles, she points at the curvature of the Earth in the opening credits and says how pretty it is…*
“Yes, baby, it’s gorgeous. Hey, did you know some people think the Earth is flat?”
“What? Grown ups?”
“Yep.”
“But… you’re not flat. And you live on the Earth.”
“That’s true.”
“So, how could the Earth be flat? How would it spin?”
“It’s not flat, some people just think it is.”
*Is shakes her head disbelievingly.*
“Wow.”
*Every day, Isobel likes to have a banana as part of her breakfast. This morning, around seven, I turn around while I’m making her lunch, to see her struggling to peel open a banana from the stem end.*
“Hey, Is, look, I used to peel bananas like that. But if you turn it around and open it from the other end, it’s way easier. I saw a monkey open it like this on a video a while ago. See?”
*She hands me the banana and I press open the other end, and magic! It opens right away. She looks from me to the banana, and back again and says…*
“Mom. When did you learn to do that?”
“I don’t know, last year, year before? Why?”
“So, you were, what, forty-eight?”
“Um, I guess so.”
“So, you were not smarter than a monkey until you were forty-eight.”
“Huh. I guess that’s true. I’m probably still not smarter than a monkey.”
*Isobel is watching ‘A Series of Unfortunate Events,’ while I am attempting to finish my paper for Philosophy (Descartes and dreams, what fun!). Anyway, she stops the show on her iPad, looks over at me working on my computer, and says…*
“Mom. It’s nice they have a navigator telling the story, so you know what’s happening.”
“What?”
“A navigator. You know, he tells the story so you know what’s going on.”
“Oh, no. Not a navigator. A narrator. A navigator is a person who finds directions for a trip, usually using maps, and decides the way to go. A narrator is a person who tells a story, like they talk through a movie, so you can follow the plot.”
“But a navigator tells the story.”
“No, baby, the word you want to use is narrator. But in a way, I guess a narrator is like a navigator- they both help you find your way. In a story or a movie, the person talking over the acting is usually a narrator.”
“Okay. I almost got lost in this movie.”
“Very cool. Enjoy!”
Why, Mommy? 