My Daughter is too Young to Share Space with this Story

{But that's just how it turned out. I'll keep hoping the organic milk keeps her hormones from kick-starting anything too soon. Of course, she's been PMSing since age 2.}

Now that Katy is finally asleep at almost 10 p.m., I have given myself an hour to decompress. She is eight years old, but her behavior is like that of a 13-year-old toddler. As soon as she gets off the school bus and storms into the house, I know I won't rest until she is sleeping. She leaves a trail of shoes, food wrappers, hair accessories, crayons, lip gloss, markers, used Kleenex, socks, and crumbs everywhere she goes. She is a chatterbox. Cacophony incarnate. Always full of sound and fury. And a new thing she's trying out, smart-mouth back-talk. This has come to include the new version of "whatever," which is "whatev" or "whatevs." Just when I thought "whatever" was rude, along comes the shortened version of it that basically tells you that you don't even deserve the courtesy of the breath it takes to utter the entire word. And if she isn't talking, tattling, whining, opining, or squealing, she's singing. I do envy her all-out joy and bubbly spirit, but she can wear me out. She has this in-your-face enthusiasm that I could never muster. In Pooh's world, I'm Eeyore, and she's Tigger. I have never been described as perky or energetic. I lean more toward mordant and morose. So I guess you could say that the cheerleader in Katy can get on the very last nerve of my inner Goth.

Anyway..... I was going to share a few observations and anecdotes, but I find myself exhausted now. Here is one true story to hold you until I can get the others together. Week before last, I was in a hotel gift shop in Washington, D.C. I was stocking up on two-dollar bottles of water to keep me from drinking the five-dollar ones tempting me in my room. I also tried to discreetly purchase a small box of tampons. [I realize I just split an infinitive there. Poetic license.] As I stood at the register with a handful of people in line behind me, the clerk, (a pretty girl named something like Gupta), held up the box and said to me, (in an unnecessarily loud voice), "I always jus' use de pads, de Stay-free, d'jou know?" I nodded politely and hoped she would leave it at that. But no. As a small crowd gathered, she shook the tampon box at me and asked, "How do dese work?" I was a bit incredulous. I glanced at the folks within earshot, smiled uncomfortably, and quietly said, "Well, you just take the wrapper off and stick it up there." (I'm sure I was even gesturing as if I had an applicator in my hand.) I heard some chuckles from those who had been pretending to study the souvenir shot glasses nearby. The clerk said, "No, no, no. I mean, how good are dey for de job?" At that point I realized she was asking for a quality rating rather than a how-to lesson. "Oh, you meant, how well do they work? Fine, I guess. This isn't my usual brand, but they get the job done." She apologized and said that maybe her English wasn't so good. I reassured her that it was my mistake. Then we shared a brief moment of female bonding when we both smiled and rolled our eyes as if to say, "Well aren't we just a couple of idiots?" Especially her.