Saturday, April 30, 2011

The Scribe's Blog Backfired

If you've been reading my blog, then you know my oldest daughter, The Scribe, has a "blog" too.  Well, not really, but that's what she calls it.  For weeks she's been writing one note a day and then putting them into the same locker at school--too bad she doesn't know who the locker belongs to.  It's actually been a good thing though because every time she writes a "blog," she writes two copies, one to drop in the locker and one to keep so she'll remember what she wrote.

I've been quite impressed by this whole thing.  It shows a lot of determination for a little nine-year-old.  Plus, it's been fun reading things she wouldn't tell me and doesn't know I'm reading.

Anyway, here are the back stories if you're interested:

"The Scribe" Started A Blog!
The Scribe Wasn't Kidding

Now, before I go on, I have to remind you of two important things . . . 

First off, my daughter has gotten to be good friends with the girl she put the "kick me" note on.  They're either the best of friends or bitter enemies.  But I have to admit that I've never seen The Scribe have more fun with any other friend.  When those two get along, they play for hours, laugh and giggle.  But when they don't get along--I'd rather be in Antartica on its coldest night.

The other important thing to remember is that there is a kid in my daughter's class and he insists on calling her "Mama."  The Scribe DOES NOT like this child.  He follows her at recess, in the lunchroom, on the way to the van.  He's like a lost puppy and I think the poor kid is in love with The Scribe.


Do you remember this?
When I got there, the room flew as a ball of chaos.  Kids ran around.  They threw paper and cracked dumb jokes.  I saw The Scribe and another girl glaring at each other from across the room.  Then a disheveled little boy ran up to my daughter and said, "You're a baby!  A . . . B-A-B-Y."  Well wasn't that fantastic--he's in third grade AND he can spell.

The Scribe folded her arms.  "Am not!  You're the baby."


The boy's eyebrows crinkled in thought and he tapped his pointer finger against his bottom lip.  "Fine.  I guess I am a baby, but if I am, that makes you my Mama!"  He feigned baby cries, becoming one of the best actors I've ever seen.  "Mama!  Mama!"  Even though he teased my daughter, I have to admit that kid's pretty witty.
  


So, now that I've practically killed you with back story, I wanted to tell you about how The Scribe's Blog Backfired!

I picked these two pictures because The Scribe reminds me of a cross between this:
Photobucket

And This:
Photobucket


Yesterday, after I brought the girls to school, I sneaked into The Scribe's bedroom and read the new blog entry.

Name: #9

I am going to talk more about my life.  Yesterday, a guy was mowing the lawn.  I like that guy.  He's cute and nice.  Someday, I will marry that guy.  When he mows the lawn it is a good day.

I gasped as I read it.  Could she be in love? She's nine!

I turned the page and read on.


Dear Mom,


I paused.  It was addressed to me?  Really?


You've been looking at my blogs!
That last blog wasn't true.  It was a joke.  A very funny joke.  It was fals fals I tell you.  I know what you've been doing.

And that's exactly how she spelled "false" as "fals, fals."  So, she wasn't in love with the lawn mower boy.  That made me stop.  If I didn't have the correct blog, then what had she brought to school?




My phone rang just after noon.  I'll give you one guess who it was . . .  Every time my phone rings, EVERY TIME The Scribe is at school--and my phone rings--it's always her or her teacher!

"Mama?" The Scribe whispered urgently.  I knew it was bad because she usually only calls me "Mom."

"What, honey?  What's wrong?"

"Can you come to the school for a minute.  I . . ." she broke into a sob.  "I'm having a bad day.  I don't want to go home though, I don't want you or my class thinking I'm a pansy . . .  I just need to talk to you about my blog.  I'll meet you by the front doors."

I rushed over to the school.  The Scribe waited, squatting by the front bushes which was odd in itself, but especially strange since they usually make the kids wait in the office.

She ran out after seeing me.  She looked from side to side as she ran, like she'd been hired at a secret spy or something.  "I'm supposed to be in lunch," she whispered.  "But I snuck a call on the phone and met you here instead."

"Won't they wonder where you are?" I asked, whispering too for some dumb reason.

"Well, I checked in with the lunch people and then left when the ladies weren't looking.  Anyway we don't have much time.  I just had to tell you, 'I'm sorry.'  You were right.  I never want to tell a boy that I like him again."

Last year, The Scribe and I made a deal that she won't have a boyfriend until she's sixteen.  That means, she can't hang out with boys and she definitely can't tell them she likes them.

"I didn't listen to you, Mom," she went on.  "I put a note in that locker . . ."  She suddenly looked toward the door and pulled me behind a tree.  "Have you ever had a weird feeling?" she asked.  "Have you ever just known something?"

I nodded.  "Yeah, I guess you could say that."

"Well, yesterday when I was writing my blog, I got this strange feeling that I knew who my blogs were going to . . .  I just knew they were going to Kobe."

"But how did you know?  Have you seen him by that locker."

"No," she looked sad, "I just had this feeling.  So, last night, I wrote a blog and I told him that I love him."

"You did what!" I nearly screamed.

"Shhhh."  She put her pointer finger to her mouth.  "Do you want to hear this story or not?"

"Fine," I whispered, playing along even though I knew we wouldn't get in trouble since I was there with her.

"I wrote the love blog and put it in his locker.  I wrote my name at the bottom and everything.  I just didn't put his name on it, in case it wasn't his locker and it was Dylan's or something."

I could have laughed, but I tried keeping a straight face.

"Anyway, after the bell rang, I walked into the classroom and guess who had my blog."

"Who?" I asked breathlessly.

"Ryan."

"The kid who calls you Mama?"

She nodded and tears filled her cherub-like eyes.  "He thinks I love him, Mom.  He's so stink'n happy.  It was harder to sneak away from him than it was to get away from the lunch lady!  But that isn't the worst part."  She really cried then and actually threw her arms around my waist.  She started talked about the "kick me" kid--her best friend.  Apparently they weren't getting along again.  "She saw Ryan reading the note," The Scribe said.  "I thought we were best friends, but she saw him reading that note . . . and she took it from him . . . and read it to the whole class.  Everyone thinks I like that baby!"

I hugged her as deep cries racked her dramatic little soul.  I patted her on the back and I know it's horrible, but as I patted her I thought, I can blog this . . . this will make for a great follow-up blog.

Needless to say, The Scribe is very happy we're leaving on a cruise tomorrow.  She doesn't want to go to school for "forever" as she put it.  She did finish the day out yesterday and I nearly busted with amusement when Ryan walked her to our van, opened the door and as he shut it he said, "I'll see you on Monday . . . Mama."

So, The Scribe won't be writing any more love letters for a long time.  Last night I asked her how she was doing.

"I'm not good," she replied.  "Now I can see why some of your friends hate blogging.  It can make things go all wrong."


Or all right, I thought.  I know she'll laugh about this when she's older.  She's always getting herself into these crazy situations where she meets the strangest children and then has amazing stories to tell me about them.  She's a hoot and I love every minute!

Anyway, we're leaving tomorrow.  I hope you'll like the interviews I have set up for next week.  I interviewed my brother, Grandma Gertie, The Hippie and The Scribe.

I'm excited to read your comments and visit your blogs when I get back.  Have a great week!  And remember when you blog, sometimes public love letters aren't the best way to go.

Sincerely,
E