Ruthie lost another tooth this week, and I think it’s her last one.

She walked around the house for a couple days with a washcloth in hand, using it to give her traction as she wiggled and pulled on that stubborn tooth.

It finally came out at a friend’s house.

I gave pause to this milestone. Briefly.

But any sentiment I may feel toward the passing days is quickly overshadowed by the fact my kids can make their own breakfast when they wake up in the morning.

At one point there were twenty kids shopping from Ruthie’s shell bucket. Crazy.

We spent the afternoon at a craggy beach earlier this week, and the kids collected two buckets of white sea shells. Mostly they were broken and smooth from the waves and sand, but they were infinite in number – a true delight for the obsessed.

Ruthie was focused that afternoon. While Thomas played in the distance with the friends we’d come with, she hung back, eyes to the ground, methodically searching for shells in a grid pattern.

That evening at home Ruthie laid the shells out in rows and announced she was selling them – small ones for a dime, medium for a quarter, large for fifty cents, and the one fully intact shell for a dollar.

Alrighty, I said. I’ll take two of the small ones for a quarter a piece.

Before I knew it, she’d caught the attention of everyone who walked by: Would you like to buy a shell? she asked sweetly, turning back to grin at me every time she dared to ask.

She asked everyone from the dog walkers to the neighboring teenagers to the church goers who park in the lot next door (who were the only ones who made a purchase, by the way; score one for Jesus!).

Then yesterday as I made dinner I noticed she was engaged in a project – marker in hand, looking for tape, in and out the front door, NOT antagonizing her brother.

Eventually she came to me and asked, “Mom, how to you spell ‘would’? Not the kind of ‘wood’ that’s a tree but the kind of ‘would’ that says ‘would you like to buy a shell?’”

I went outside to investigate this curious sign project and found that she’d re-purposed my magnetic clips (I later found piles of paper abandoned on the floor at the foot of my refrigerator) to hang her sale signs along the fence. She’s managed to cover the perimeter of our yard, hanging a sign on each side to let the world know she is selling shells.

As I’ve watched this unfold over the last few days, I’m intrigued by all the elements of her personality that blossomed to make this happen – focus, ingenuity, tenacity, and self-starting initiation – elements I fear she’d always use for evil rather than good.

My little girl is growing up. She’s using her mind, she’s creating, and she’s solving problems (no tape? no problem! I’ll use clips!).

I’m growing up, too. I didn’t intervene. I didn’t freak out over the magnet clips. I didn’t try to control any element of this process.

She asked me to spell a word, and she asked me to buy a shell.

It’s all her, and I’m so proud of that.

Introverted mom seeking extrovert for translating communications with extroverted daughter.

Common misunderstood phrases include (but are not limited to):

“But I don’t want to be alone outside!” when asked to take out the recycling.

“But I don’t want to be alone in my room!” when asked to get dressed.

“But I don’t want to be alone!” when asked to stay in her room until 7am.

Requirements:

Ability to explain dislike for being alone; must be available on call.

Mail Man Mail Man do your duty
Here comes a woman with an African booty

This is what they’re singing on the playground these days while jumping rope.

When I was a kid we sang about bubble gum and ice cream, but now it’s about getting laid by the mail man.

I once got in trouble for telling one of my parents’ friends I was going to sock him right in the kisser. I thought we were all kidding around, but apparently I was not the funny one. I was mortified that I had said something wrong, and cried DRAH MA TAH CLY before I finally apologized.

We were at Bridgeman’s Ice Cream on W. 66th in Richfield, Minnesota after church, in a corner booth opposite the kitchen door. THAT’s how clearly that embarrassing moment is etched in my mind.

So I asked Ruthie if she knew what that meant, and she was all, I don’t care.

And I was all, WELL YOU’RE GONNA CARE!

Okay, I didn’t really say that. But I THOUGHT that. And I also thought about my hands around her neck. And I also thought about locking her in a box.

But that’s normal, right? Please tell me you think about that all the time, too. Pretty please?

Anyway, what I REALLY said, was that the mail man is being told to treat a woman like she’s his wife, only she isn’t, and what does Jesus say about that? And how is a man supposed to treat a woman who is not his wife? And for that matter, how is a man supposed to treat ANYbody? And who is that man supposed to listen to – Jesus? or a bunch of first graders who are taunting him to sleep with the first woman he runs into???

Okay, I edited that part a bit for age appropriateness.

Maybe.

But we had our little conversation, and it was all just dandy. This was months ago. And just last week when I asked her again how that little jingle went, she rattled it off like an auctioneer and I was all, Wow, you still know that pretty well.

And she was all, Yeah.

And I was all, Sooooo, you’re still chanting that on the playground then?

And she was all, Kinda.

So we had that same conversation. Again.

And I realized parenting is not just about being a broken record, but about being THE LOUDEST BROKEN RECORD ON THE PLAYGROUND.

I took this picture at the bus stop the other morning. Ruthie’s always had a flare for colors and patterns, and this bright combination on a sunny day made me smile.

It’s small moments like these I want to rmember most.

Thomas: “When they got out of jail?”

Ruthie: “Yeah. And mom is pregnant.”

Wha-?

“A fool thinks mischief is fun, but a mindful person relishes wisdom.” Proverbs 10:23.

I quote this verse constantly to Ruthie because she gets a total high off pushing people’s buttons. I often catch her smirking… SMIRKING… as she’s, oh I don’t know… kicking my chair over and over at breakfast, let’s say.

This morning as she smirkingly pushed buttons I was all, “Seriously? SERIOUSLY?” and told her to go write down three specific ways she could honor her mom today.

So far she has two, but can’t think of another one.

LOL – Oh, the joys of parenting.

The creative mischief never ends at our house, and it seems I have two children destined for tattoos in their future. Some might prefer I be more concerned about this, but I just can’t seem to get worked up over a little ink.

It washes off. Usually.

Our Thanksgiving weekend was thankfully free of horror stories. I just heard one that involved three different drama-filled family gatherings & an unmedicated schizophrenic cousin. So yeah. We were drama free and appropriately medicated.

We ate a lot, slept a lot, adventured a lot, and watched tv a lot, and we did it all together, and WE LIKED IT.

That last point is directed at me, who typically feels a tad DONE with the kids after too much togetherness. But even I, selfish grouch that I am, enjoyed four days of family bliss.

Ruthie, now a first grader, is fully into reading and writing. This sounded exciting and adventurous at the outset, but I quickly realized literacy provides one more way to express defiance.

I should have stayed content with slamming doors.