Three, maybe four weeks ago I sent seven adorable (if I may say so) hand-designed invitations to Lucy's seventh birthday party to seven carefully selected friends and classmates. The invitation gave all the relevant information - date, time, location - plus a plea to "please respond to..." and included both my phone number and my email address. Hey, I'm not old fashioned. I don't require an engraved response card. Email is fine. Indeed, I even omitted the apparently misleading RSVP acronym, a not insignificant concession on my part. RSVP, of course, means "please respond," but since even fewer people speak French than respond to invitations these days, and in light of past disappointing response rates, I elected to speak English this year.
Turns out no one speaks English either.
The party in question is now three days away, and here are the numbers:
Yes: 4
No: 0
Maybe: 1
Hang on. Maybe? What, if you don't get a better offer? Well, yes, basically. The family has something else to do but will come by if they finish early enough. Wow. What do you say to that? I mean, it's not that I don't want this child to come to the party, not at all. And I know Lucy will be sad if her friend is not there. In fact, I can easily imagine the little girl pleading with her mother to let her go to the party. This is what we in education call a teachable moment. The mother expresses sympathy for her daughter's disappointment but explains that sometimes in life you have to make choices. At least, that's what happens in my fantasy world, also known as 1955. In 21st-century real life, apparently, it's fine to be rude.
Meanwhile, you may have noticed that these numbers do not add up to seven. That's right - two children (or, to place blame where it's due, their parents) have yet to respond. The "maybe" response notwithstanding, it is hard to imagine that these people do not themselves know whether or not their daughter will attend. Surely by now they have made a decision on this. Why not let me in on it? It is to these people that I am always tempted to say, when they call the morning of the party to say breezily that little Betty will be there, that I'm so delighted to have her if only she'll promise not to eat or drink anything, since the shopping for the party was done a week ago. Oh, and no party favors, either.
I don't say that, of course, because I am a very serious Non-RSVP Enabler, also known as a Polite Hostess. But I think it. You hear me? I'm thinking it!
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
BFF
Yesterday Lucy said to me, "Mom, Madison is my BFF."
Now, there are two deeply troubling linguistic issues in that sentence, but leaving aside for a moment the entirely open question of whether or not I should allow my child to consort with someone named after a Daryl Hannah character from the 80's, let's instead consider the term "BFF."
No sooner was it out of her mouth than Lucy fixed me with a doubtful stare. "Do you know what BFF means, Mom?"
Oh, the irony.
Now, it happens that I do, in fact, know what BFF means. I know because a friend whose daughter is some years older than mine told me. This happened, oh, about a week ago. The friend mentioned her daughter's BFF in an email, and I responded by saying "WTF is a BFF?" to which she responded, predictably perhaps, "OMG!!!"
So, yes, I know what a BFF is, but not, and I repeat NOT because I am in any way Hip. But did this fact stop me from acting Hip to Lucy? No, it did not.
"Sure," I replied nonchalantly, "I know what BFF means." Implying, of course, "what kind of idiot doesn't know that?"
And yet. And yet. Do I really know what it means? I suppose we've always had this concept, albeit without the acronym, but for me the BFF is a thing of the past. I have dear friends, indeed, and in some adult sense my husband is my BFF, but methinks the BFF is a very adolescent construct. Which, because my own adolesence is mercifully behind me, means that I probably don't really know what BFF means, at least not what it means to an almost-seven-year-old. Furthermore, it was amply clear from her expression that Lucy did not expect me to know what it means.
And so it seems we have entered a new era, one in which Lucy knows and understands stuff that I don't. One in which she knows that she knows stuff I don't. One in which I become less Hip, or perhaps simply in which my lack of Hipness begins to be objectionable.
None of this is exactly a cheerful prospect.
Except - wait - isn't this what growing up is, at least in part? Isn't it just the latest version of all that separating I've been talking about? Growing away from your parents and their (un-Hip) ways. Growing new ideas and, yes, new vocabulary. Having a BFF that they did not choose for you and have, in fact, never even met. Yep. Sounds right.
OMG.
Now, there are two deeply troubling linguistic issues in that sentence, but leaving aside for a moment the entirely open question of whether or not I should allow my child to consort with someone named after a Daryl Hannah character from the 80's, let's instead consider the term "BFF."
No sooner was it out of her mouth than Lucy fixed me with a doubtful stare. "Do you know what BFF means, Mom?"
Oh, the irony.
Now, it happens that I do, in fact, know what BFF means. I know because a friend whose daughter is some years older than mine told me. This happened, oh, about a week ago. The friend mentioned her daughter's BFF in an email, and I responded by saying "WTF is a BFF?" to which she responded, predictably perhaps, "OMG!!!"
So, yes, I know what a BFF is, but not, and I repeat NOT because I am in any way Hip. But did this fact stop me from acting Hip to Lucy? No, it did not.
"Sure," I replied nonchalantly, "I know what BFF means." Implying, of course, "what kind of idiot doesn't know that?"
And yet. And yet. Do I really know what it means? I suppose we've always had this concept, albeit without the acronym, but for me the BFF is a thing of the past. I have dear friends, indeed, and in some adult sense my husband is my BFF, but methinks the BFF is a very adolescent construct. Which, because my own adolesence is mercifully behind me, means that I probably don't really know what BFF means, at least not what it means to an almost-seven-year-old. Furthermore, it was amply clear from her expression that Lucy did not expect me to know what it means.
And so it seems we have entered a new era, one in which Lucy knows and understands stuff that I don't. One in which she knows that she knows stuff I don't. One in which I become less Hip, or perhaps simply in which my lack of Hipness begins to be objectionable.
None of this is exactly a cheerful prospect.
Except - wait - isn't this what growing up is, at least in part? Isn't it just the latest version of all that separating I've been talking about? Growing away from your parents and their (un-Hip) ways. Growing new ideas and, yes, new vocabulary. Having a BFF that they did not choose for you and have, in fact, never even met. Yep. Sounds right.
OMG.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Self-awareness
Over hot cocoa after an afternoon spent sledding:
Lucy [with conviction]: Mom, if you want someone to remember something, I'm your girl. If you want someone to slide down the ice backwards in a sled, that's not me.
Lucy [with conviction]: Mom, if you want someone to remember something, I'm your girl. If you want someone to slide down the ice backwards in a sled, that's not me.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Wardrobe
Here is what Ben wore to preschool today:
- Red silk women's blouse (from his pirate Halloween costume via Goodwill)
- Purple velvet girls' leggings (ditto)
- Sparkly belt decorated with butterflies (from Lucy's dresser, on loan)
- Paul Revere-style black felt three-corner hat (from our trip to Colonial Williamsburg)
- Knee-high red and blue Barcelona Soccer Club soccer socks (from, well, Barcelona)
- Froggy rain boots (from eBay)
- "Rock the Vote" button (from Montgomery College)
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Obama
There is no television at my house. We don't need one - our NPR addiction gets us all the news we need, and on the rare occasions when we watch a movie we just use a laptop. For big events I buy a newspaper.
Needless to say, yesterday was a Big Event.
So I picked up a copy of the Washington Post (which I note is now selling for upwards of $50 on eBay - who knew?) at the gas station while Ben was in preschool. After I read it I left it on the kitchen table, where Lucy discovered it when she got home from school.
She looked at all the pictures carefully, and read most of the headlines. Then she said, "does Obama have brown skin?"
She knew we were campaigning for him. Indeed, she was one of the only children in her class to vote for him in their mock election. Have I mentioned that we live in a red county? But remember - no TV. Apparently she had no idea what he looks like until she saw him on the front page of the paper.
So I said, "yes, he does. He's the first African-American to be elected president of our country."
There was a pause. Then she said, "why?"
Uh... because of the insidious legacy of slavery? Because bigotry is damn near impossible to eradicate? Because people fear change and difference in equal measure?
In the end I said something about the unfairness of slavery, with which she is already familiar, and how it has taken a long time for that unfairness to begin to go away. An insufficient answer to a deep and insightful question. But does not the question itself speaks of the not-very-distant future, when people will think of the time before a black man was president the way my generation thinks of the time before women could vote: as ancient history?
Lucy is amazed by the fact that when her great-grandmother was a little girl she had no refrigerator. That when her grandparents were young most people did not have televisions. That when her father and I were kids there were no computers or cell phones. One day, I imagine, she will tell her children that when she was young, the first African-American was elected president.
And they will be amazed.
Needless to say, yesterday was a Big Event.
So I picked up a copy of the Washington Post (which I note is now selling for upwards of $50 on eBay - who knew?) at the gas station while Ben was in preschool. After I read it I left it on the kitchen table, where Lucy discovered it when she got home from school.
She looked at all the pictures carefully, and read most of the headlines. Then she said, "does Obama have brown skin?"
She knew we were campaigning for him. Indeed, she was one of the only children in her class to vote for him in their mock election. Have I mentioned that we live in a red county? But remember - no TV. Apparently she had no idea what he looks like until she saw him on the front page of the paper.
So I said, "yes, he does. He's the first African-American to be elected president of our country."
There was a pause. Then she said, "why?"
Uh... because of the insidious legacy of slavery? Because bigotry is damn near impossible to eradicate? Because people fear change and difference in equal measure?
In the end I said something about the unfairness of slavery, with which she is already familiar, and how it has taken a long time for that unfairness to begin to go away. An insufficient answer to a deep and insightful question. But does not the question itself speaks of the not-very-distant future, when people will think of the time before a black man was president the way my generation thinks of the time before women could vote: as ancient history?
Lucy is amazed by the fact that when her great-grandmother was a little girl she had no refrigerator. That when her grandparents were young most people did not have televisions. That when her father and I were kids there were no computers or cell phones. One day, I imagine, she will tell her children that when she was young, the first African-American was elected president.
And they will be amazed.
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