Franny: WWI started when a Brtitish man shot and killed the heirs to the throne. His name was Archduke Fronklet. Isn’t that a weird name? Archduke Fronklet. That’s the only part I really remember.

The airplanes above, they affect almost the whole entire war by dropping bombs. Oh, wait, they killed almost 137 people. I think. I’m not sure. Isn’t that a lot of people?

Me: Well, are you sure it’s that many?

Franny: I don’t know. But if it is 137, it’s a lot, right?

Me: What else happened?

Franny: I forgot. Wait, there was a flare gun, which the French invented. And a machine gun. And a broom hand shotgun. And I know what their elevator looked like. They used rope and put wood on the bottom.

Me: When did you give this report?

Franny: I give it today! I’m really nervous.

Me: Godspeed, kid.

Today I am sad because Britney Spears has lost her children. I will not qualify this with snarky remarks about her or her fashion sense or driving around with her babies in her lap or whatever. This life is hard, dood.

With my ex-husband moving in a couple of months and our schedule with Franny changing, I have been thinking of how hard it can be to buckle down and be a good parent every day. By good parenting, I don’t mean refraining from appearing topless on a reality show, or choosing milk with that McFatty Meal instead of Diet Coke. I mean doing that little bit extra that takes so much fucking energy. Making good dinners. Really listening instead of “mmm-hmming.” Having a discussion instead of saying, “Because god said so” or whatever.

I have been asking myself what I want to do with this situation a lot. I have to. His first attempt at proper required notice of relocation did not include a required proposed parenting plan, the date of the move, or the new address. You could probably see the letters “WTF” over my head about three feet tall (it’s the new question mark, you know). I replied with, “Um…WHUT?” and he has reattempted, but it is pretty fail also.

Twice now, no proper notice, so I am making decisions that I don’t really want to make. I think when I was younger I would have classified this as Like, Totalleh Unfair, but now that I am older it is worth it to do more work in order to have things happen correctly and to cover your own ass properly, right?

For the past two years, we have been a pretty even fifty-fifty. I am used to this; we all are. Franny has been complaining for the past year and a half that she wants more time over here, but I just figured we were locked in unless I wanted to open the terrifying $50,000 can of worms again. I thought maybe we could make a change when she was old enough to speak on her own behalf in court at ten or twelve, and who knows what that change would be? It might not be the same decision as now. It’s okay.

I also had the thought that if she really, really wanted to be with her dad after this move I would roll over and let her go. It would be painful, but it’s better to see a kid occasionally who’s happy to see you, and to know that they are where they are happy to be most of the time, rather than forcing an unhappy kid to humor your selfishness. But she really wants to stay in her school here and with me. I feel compelled to attempt this for her.

In the meantime I will make good dinners and finish this website Companion and I are building for Franny’s school, and I will try not to grind my molars into little bits of toof dust. Like really try, as the hygienist I saw last week told me my teeth are actually loose right now. I will also ask myself 4,000 times if I am doing the right thing, wish wistfully 7,000 times that things didn’t have to change, and wonder if this will be one of those times where later I go, “if I could do that over again, I would basically do the opposite of whatever it was that I thought I was doing.”

So now I get to do a bunch of legwork that is Like, Totalleh Unfair to make up for his shortcomings in dealing with these proceedings. I may fail at this attempt. I’ll pick myself up again. My world won’t end. But I will see a very disappointed little face if I don’t at least try.

Yesterday morning was fun sneaky times at Casa del Asshole. Franny’s teacher is strongly encouraging parents to let kids make their own lunches for school, and has asked parents to make this easier for them by making sure they have supplies and time to do so. It’s all part of the independence thing at their school, which I am all for.

On Sundays I have her sit down and write up a balanced menu for the week, which is a list of things she can pack, so she won’t stand in front of the fridge blankly. I look over the list and we talk about protein and fruits and all that jazz.

So in the morning I watched her get dressed, and eat the oatmeal I made. She had a ton of time and screwed around by playing in her room. I was standing in the kitchen and watched her look at her lunch bag and then remember, and then deliberately walk away from it. She read to her sister and fooled around some more. She probably pissed away about forty minutes. I said nothing.

Then it was time to get shoes on and get out the door for our short walk to school. We got off our property and halfway down the block with Strudel. Franny’s hands were noticeably empty, and there was a weird dramatic tension.

“OH NO!” Franny exclaimed. “I forgot my lunch, MOM!”

“Oh no. I guess you won’t have lunch today. That’s too bad,” I said sincerely.

She stopped in her tracks and gave me a confused look, because this is the part where I was supposed to go, “OH DEAR POOR BABY, LET MUMMY RUN HOME AND FIX EVERYTHING.” But I didn’t.

“What am I going to do?” she wailed, and began crying.

“Well, your teacher says that if you forget your lunch, parents are not supposed to bail you out. It’s your responsibility to remember lunch now.”

She cried softly all the way to school, and then pulled it together as she walked in the door. She froze when she entered, and I saw her classmates greet her. I only saw the back of her, but she had weird body language, like on TV when the main character is dreaming she’s forgotten her pants. BUSTED.

“Have a good day!” I said.

After school, she looked completely out of gas. I talked to her teacher really quickly and asked her how it came out. She said they talked about the importance of not forgetting, and that she didn’t see Franny eat anything all day. She came home and ate a bunch of snacks, and told me that someone slipped her an apple at one point.

This morning, before I came downstairs, the lunch bag was already packed and on the counter. You can’t outsneak the Sneaky Queen. At least not at six.