Poppy Mom

Clara Jane's admirer

My child, Clara "Hottie" Jane, has an admirer.

Boy is almost 8. Or almost 9. I forget. He lives next door to us. He looks like a mini-me version of Rivers Cuomo from Weezer.

The teachers have labled Boy as being ADHD and "slow". Do they still call kids slow? In my neighborhood, they do.

I think these teachers are a bit "slow", because Boy is one smooth talkin' little man. And he has eyes for my daughter.

We have to be very careful to keep our doors locked. Not just because life in the Redneck Jungle is harsh. I mean, we would be heartbroken if hillbillies broke in and stole our homemade wine and Nascar collectibles (shut up - I have items that fit both descriptions). Our main concern, though, is Boy, who has a tendency to just wander into our house.

"Where's The Baby?" he asks as he cases my house. I'm not sure that he knows her name. "Can I play with the Baby? Can I hold The Baby?"

In turn, Hottie adores her boy admirer. He makes her all swoony and gassy. Well, it's probably the acorn squash that makes her gassy. I hope so. If she gets the machine gunner farts everytime she gets around a boy she admires, we're going to be in for one hell of an adolesence.

We've had to talk to Boy's mom, because he tends to stop by in the evening, after Clara Jane has taken her hot self to bed. She tries to keep him under control. She really does. It's not so easy when you're mom to Boy - Evil Genius. Sometimes he sneeks under her radar. Like tonight.

Boy doesn't knock on our door. He doesn't ring the doorbell. Rather, he lays on the doorbell. I swear, he brings a stepstool with him so he can climb high enough to plant his shoulder against the bell. It's much less tiring on his finger that way.

Our doorbell echos. If Boy's having a particularly ringy night, we can be hearing that damn bell well into the wee hours.

He was having a ringy night tonight, right as B. was trying to get Hottie to please please please go to sleep. I sprinted through the house with Murphy the Squirrelhound firmly wedged between my ankles to prevent her from fleeing to her freedom when I opened the front door.

There stood Boy, shoulder against the doorbell and a newspaper in his hand. A newspaper that has been slowly decomposing for several months in the scraggly shrubs in front of our house that deter thieves from stealing our homemade wine and Nascar collectibles.

"Here. I brought your newspaper to you," he said, removing his shoulder from the doorbell and planting it into my gut as he pushed his way inside. "Where's The Baby?"

It took some work, but I finally made him realize that we just couldn't disturb his lil' gal, who hasn't slept in roughly 72 hours.

"If you come by before 7 tomorrow night, you can play with her," I said as he trudged off the porch.

"I didn't come to play. I was just bringing you your paper."

Aw.

Posted by Robin at July 29, 2004 09:48 PM | TrackBack