Yikes! Four days absent. And so much has happened.
Oliver, you announced a couple of days ago in the car that you have a girlfriend. You are in Grade 1.
She's in Grade 2, of course, and when we asked how it all came to be you said it was because she had saved you from a wrestle with Johnny that wasn't going your way. We liked that. But we were still nervous. I asked if you had kissed her. You said no and then yes but I couldn't tell whether the yes was just to freak my head right out, as we say around here. My head did freak. Quickly dad and I babbled and spittled over each other the very same message: R-E-S-P-E-C-T. You replied calmly that you did respect her. And that she's beautiful, with the same colour of eyes as you (green) as well as the same hue of hair (dark blonde). Then we asked what happened next.
Dad kept the car on the road. I challenged you.
"What does dating mean?"
"Going for dinner."
"Where will you go?"
"Anthony's or Whispers."
"Who will take you?"
"We will walk together. Alone."
We had to hand it to you: you were chill, you were cool, and there was no big fuss. OMG.
Here you are with a slug, not a girl, which is just fine.
As for you, George, some mention must be made of your fashion choices. Where to begin. Okay, first, sock hatred. You pull those mothers off every chance you can get, rain or snow, and as a result you have a couple of the stinkiest feet on the planet. I almost keeled over at dinner the other night having to sit beside you, and you just laughed gently at my folly. It is bad, George!
Second: insistence on "star leggings" at all times. Always. They're too small, and you can hardly see the stars anymore, but they are everything to you and all hell breaks loose if we've forgotten to launder them the night before. And then, you roll them right up to mid-thigh, and we only know they're high enough if they're cutting off your circulation. This is the rule for inside as well as outside in -20°C weather.
For the final touch, if we're lucky, a ponytail. But last week you wore a neck warmer on your head for five consecutive days, and this weekend, it was a clear ladies' shower cap. That cap went everywhere, including to a performace of The Nutcracker, in the midst of the rest of girlworld done up in red and green velvet dresses and ringletted hair.
As for The Nutcracker, I thought everything had gone well. You were riveted if confused, and thrilled to have been invited by your BFF Annabelle. You talked about it lots after, and all in all it seemed as if we had the makings of a Christmas tradition.
Yesterday: "I didn't like any of it! Not the dancin', not the dark, not the bad guys, not the dreamin'—none of it! Only Annabelle!"