Okay, emails are telling me that yes, Virginia (stop calling me that), you do have to login to comment. So I apologize for making reference to Ritalin, etc. Thanks for reading, if you are, and…it’s coming along. Just imagine donkeys knitting ponchos. In the meantime I will spin plates and you can point and laugh.

Today I get my Franny back and then immediately chuck her at a slumber party, which she is very excited about. We had a weird moment in the spring where she was invited to one for the day she came back from her dad’s and it didn’t work out so well. She came home from school and was supposed to have a snack, pack, and chill out a bit and then go for dinner.

Instead Franny utterly dragged her feet and moped, clinging to me on the couch and talking about how her week had gone. The minutes ticked by.

“Are you going to pack?” I said.

“Mmm, yes, soon, I guess.”

Finally I asked her if she wanted to go.

“I don’t know,” she said, frowning. “What are you making for dinner?” By accident I was making one of her favorite things, peanut-crusted chicken.

“Oooh, darn” she said, and dragged herself upstairs but was only pretending to pack. “I want to see Strudel and P. tonight.”

“Tomorrow,” I said. “Have fun tonight with those girls and family time tomorrow.”

We got out the door in time, Franny looking jolly like someone who is walking off to be executed. Her shoulders slumped.

“Are you having trouble making a decision?” I said.

“Yes,” she sighed.

“Well,” I said, “sometimes when I am having trouble deciding, I listen to my gut. You know, how I feel inside? I say, do I feel excited about going to this party, or do I want to stay home?”

Normally if she was a little grumbly or lazy I would tell her to sack up and give her a little speech about not being flaky and trying to see our promises through, but she was looking weird.

We approached the door and could see into the front window, which was half a storey above street level. The rest of the girls were already there and were having some sort of screamy eight-year-old girl ritual in the living room involving scarves and jumping around a lot. We walked up the steps unnoticed. Franny clutched her sleeping bag and her finger hovered over the doorbell. She turned to me.

“My gut is telling me to stay home,” she said, and put her finger away.

We walked home and she seemed much happier immediately. I called one of the parents and apologetically told them that Franny was not going to be there. People are pretty understanding of the fact that split custody is really hard on her and things like this happen sometimes. Before she went to bed that night, I asked her if she had made the right decision.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m just glad those girls didn’t see me.”

So I hope we don’t have a repeat of that today, really. I want her to go and do fun things with her friends. Tonight I will tell her I am making liver and onions, followed by a rousing evening of “sit in a cardboard box and stare at the wall.”

“Overprotection is a rejection of your power.”

–David Richo

And now it can be told: school is over and I am so excited I could throw up. I had a few moments there where I almost snapped and ran away and took the children off to the School of Life, aka Piratetry, Mexico, Hoboport, or fill in the blank.

Flack, there was flack, flack ahoy. Like a responsible netizen (oh yers I did) I did not tell you that my big kid was walking by herself to and from school every day. When I moved to this neighborhood, this is something I thought would be a possibility with the children, along with running to the store for bananas, to the methadone clinic, etc, etc. But I thought this would be a far-off future thing, since they are just now able to wash me to my satisfaction with a rag on a stick.

It came up, though, somehow, the walking, and I thought about it. It is all of a couple of blocks, no busy streets are crossed, and school ins and outs times are always broad daylight, as they say.

“Are you sure you want to do this by yourself?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, okay.”

And she went! A little scared on the first day. There was some hesitancy and some surprise from her teacher, who called me on the first day she was to come home. “She’s here and I’m sending her home now, right? Okay?” Right, okay. Her teacher is used to the helicopter parenting, which is about 47 times less amusing than a roflcopter.

And then it got interesting. The sound of chopper blades filled the air. People started cluing in to the fact that Franny was embarking alone daily on a five-minute walk. OMFGBBQ, release the hounds. A parent told her that she should not be walking home by herself, after she and I had decided it was okay and that she was ready. Did you catch that? Another parent told my little fledging independent so-proud-of-herself kid that what she was doing was not okay. Another well-meaning parent offered her a ride. This article flew around the list. Asperations were cast.

Lucky for me, I put my head together with my kid’s teacher really quickly. I also talked to my kid. Good job, my kid! Keep up the good work. Her teacher let her lollygag for a few minutes every day so she could avoid the swarming.

But she toughed it out. I tried not to make a big deal about it–she could walk with me, or alone, whatever. I told her I was proud of her, and I was. Letting her have some freedom, is the best thing I can do to let her know that I think she’s capable, because she IS. DAMMIT!

Cat? Mebbe.

“Do you love it, Mom?”

“I love it SOOOO much!”

“Really?”

“I love it so much I can imagine it tattooed on my beefy arm.”

“Noooo, Mom, that’s a stupid idea!”

This is a request and dedication to J>O>B.

Franny: Oh, that’s a good song, Mom.

Me: Yes, I love it.

Franny: I think Amy Winehouse is crazy.

Me: Why?

Franny: Oh, you know….

Me: No, I don’t.

Franny: You know. (slipping into deep voice) “They tried to make me gooo to rehab and I said new, new, new.”

Me: HUR!

Franny: I wish I was Amy Winehouse, except I would be WAI smarter.

Me: I know you would.

Franny: Never mind. I would want to be Rihanna. But with a Harry Potter wand.