The Girl brought home a paper for me to sign last night. One of her teachers believes that she should be in the Gifted and Talented program.
I signed that paper with a flourish, y’all.
I’ve always thought that she is super-bright– and that’s not just gratuitous Mommy-preening. We are, after all, talking about the child who explored the concept of death by having a pharaonic burial for a Barbie1.
Of course, we are also talking about the child who routinely “forgets” to put on clean socks, who cannot for the life of her – remember all the steps to taking out the trash, and sometimes brushes her teeth sans toothpaste.
I wonder if Albert Einstein’s mom had these problems?
1 – I believe it is still interred on a shelf, somewhere at her Dad’s house.
I am an exhausted woman, today. I think it the likely cause is the URI that I recently recovered from Also? Spending all day being chilled to the bone.
“I not a Pooh-bear. I a Punkin’ Bird.” -The Girl (age 3)
The Girl popped a fever this morning. Poor kid. She and I have been fighting what I’ve affectionately termed “Venusian Death Cold” for the past week or so. I seem to be on the upswing of it now. It appears that she is having a relapse. At least it seems fairly mild. Touch of fever, some extra nose-goo. She says her tum is upset as well – probably due to all the sinus drainage. Of course, in spite of the vague nausea she immediately asked for something to eat1.
She’s downstairs, nomming the plain rice I made her. Advil and decongestant on board. Watching Warehouse 13, like you do.
I hate when she is sick.
Oh, not because she is a bad patient. She really isn’t. Never has been. Even as a tiny tot, she was pretty compliant about medicine and rest and drinking fluids and such. I just despise seeing my bouncy, kinetic Girl squished into the couch, unable to do much more than watch TV and cough.
Over the years, one of the ways I could tell if The Girl was coming down with something was a bout of lethargy. She would come to wherever I was, press her wee hot feet into me and just… flatten into a Girl-pancake. It was one the most heartrending things to see as her Mom. She felt awful and apparently the make-it-better magic wand department had failed to send out anything to my address.
Nowadays, she pretty much takes care of her ownself, thank you very much. She got herself downstairs, made her own nest on the couch and settled in – a grim little soldier in the guerrilla warfare against the germs2 invading her body.
Of course, my Punky-bird has always had her own mind about things.
Her fashion sense, for example.
1 – We used to call her “The Baby That Ate Tokyo.” 2 – . I would ninja star any germs into fleeing, if I could.
The Process 