The Scribe is My Roomie

Don't ask why The Scribe always insists on doing blog-worthy things.  Don't ask why she constantly calls me from school, pulls dastardly pranks and makes me smile.  Don't ask why she ALWAYS eavesdrops, or why trouble follows her like a lost puppy.  I think it's because she's a character . . . a goofball in the making . . . a kid who knows how to have fun.  Why? you ask.  Why, bring this up now?  Because she's done it again.

She might even be as rad as this kid:

A few days ago my neighbor's sweet little sister came over.

Do you remember Melynda from:


Well, her little sister comes to visit me sometimes and I absolutely love it.

Her sister is sweet and beautiful.  She's going to have a little boy and I swear he'll be cuter than Superman on a Sunday!  Anyway, she has a roommate and I decided to give her some advice which was probably unnecessary.  I blabbed on, wanting to feel involved, important.  "You need to set some rules before the baby is born.  Maybe tell your roomie she'll need to be quiet after a certain time at night.  Oh and label your food.  Like your almond milk.  That stuff's expensive!  There's nothing worse than a roomate who's always eating food that's meant for you or the baby."

"Label the food?  My sister said the same thing, but do people actually do that?"

"Absolutely."  I nodded, suddenly acting knowledgeable about something I knew nothing about.  God forbid, I actually talk about something I know.  But it felt good saying the word "roomie" like I was really cool or something--like I was wearing tight jeans and becoming epic!

So, she left and I was a saint who'd never labeled food in my life.

I went about the rest of my day.  The air tasted crisp and clear.  I suddenly knew how Philosophers feel. Sure they probably have no idea what they talk about, but they still feel like they're helping people.  That's how I felt--incredibly helpful--that was before God taught me another lesson this year!

I woke up at eleven p. m..  I heard someone rustling around in the fridge.  It reminded me of The Break-in.  I thought of Jill's targeter even though no one has been messing with her house lately.  I tip-toed down the stairs, slowly, flinching at every creak and stopping at every wooden moan.

"Mom, is that you?" The Scribe asked.

"What in the heck are you doing?"

"Getting a snack."

She was such a greedy raccoon.  A bunch of items rested on the counter like she'd gutted the entire fridge.  "How many snacks did you plan on having?"

"Ummm . . . just one, but I wanted to see them all together, you know, before I made my final decision."

"Put everything away!"  How could the kid even see?  No lights were on; the only light came from the gutted fridge.

She hurried after that and did what I said.  I folded my arms and watched from across the room.  It took a few minutes, but far less time than I'd expected.  I gave her a piece of bread, patted her buns and told her to GO TO SLEEP!  I sighed at the closed fridge and the kitchen counter.  She'd cleaned it well.  The only thing left was a black magic marker.  I stared at it, wondering why it was there and not in my sewing room.  That made absolutely no sense, but then again, it was late and I wasn't thinking like a scribe.

So, the next morning, we all cluttered into the kitchen and got ready for breakfast.  Now, if you've read about mornings at my house, they're not a pretty thing.  Breakfast . . . is going to kill me!

We opened the fridge and that's when I discovered I should never play Philosopher again.  I should never give advice about being a good "roomie."  I should never even use the word "roomie."

I turned to my oldest daughter, that nine-year-old with hearing better than Potter's owl in book two!  "Why does everything in the fridge have your name on it?"

"Because, I'm your roomie."  She put her hands on her hips and beamed with responsibility gone wrong.  "I heard you talking to Melynda's sister.  You said she should label her stuff so her roomies won't eat it."

"That's because she bought it!  I bought all this stuff."

"So, no one can eat anything with your name on it?" The Hippie asked.

The Scribe nodded.

"Then what are we going to eat?"  The Hippie looked through the fridge.  "I don't see anything with my name on it."

"Here's something,"  The Scribe said and handed her a Capri Sun.  "That has your name on it."

"A drink?  Does any of the food belong to me?"

"Well," The Scribe sorted through the fridge, "I wasn't thinking about you when I went through the fridge.  I mean, I thought about you when I found the Capri Sun.  But I didn't really think about you until I got to the closet."  She opened the pantry.  "I put your name on the peanut butter."

"You put everyone's names on the peanut butter!"

"And you spelled mom . . . mum," I said.

"'Cause it sounded cooler that way."

I wanted to tell her how trying to be cool and using cool words is foolish.  About how I'd used the word "roomie" and it had brought about my downfall.  I refrained though as shock hit me again. I pointed.  "You labeled the pantry . . . too?"

"Yep.  I was down here a long time before you woke up.  So, are you proud of me, or what?"

I really didn't know what to say.  If we lived by her system, the rest of us would starve.  Maybe I was wrong.  Maybe we could live off of peanut butter, but it wouldn't be a fun life.  I told everyone to sit down. 

"I'm going to make eggs, sound good?"

"Yeah, but I think," The Scribe paused.  "I don't want to make this weird, but I think those are mine."

I took another peek into the fridge.  Almost everything had The Scribe's name on it: the eggs, milk, juice, even the pickle jar!  "Is there anything in here that's not yours?" I asked.

"Yeah," she grinned, "the tuna casserole.  You guys can have that."

So, I made a big boo boo.  I SHOULD NOT have given advice to someone.  I SHOULD NOT have used the word "roomie" since that obviously leads to bad things.  I SHOULD NOT have been surprised after I saw the marker on the counter!

The Scribe ended up labeling everything again.  I made her put EVERYONE"S names on EVERYTHING.  Except the tuna casserole.  We ended up just putting her name on that.

Anyway, it all ended well and The Scribe even got to practice her cursive.  What a kid; I never know what to expect!