This time it was innocent. I SWEAR. I was simply cleaning out the kid's schoolbag and out tumbled two carefully folded papers. Curious things to find in the hobo-like knapsack of a girl who can't manage to turn her homework in without food stains and wrinkles.
Yet I know these papers. Lined – wide-rule. Each filled with the pencil-thick penmanship of someone nervous and pressing down too hard. Folded once, twice, maybe six times total so as to slip inconspicuously into the front pocket of a backpack. Notes from a boy.
A FIFTH grade boy, no less. A boy who, when I pick my daughter up at aftercare every day calls me "Ms. Lily's Mom", and who standing up is taller than I am. Taller than I am! And this boy has told my daughter in hurried scribbles that he wants to marry her and has bought her a Christmas ring. And that he wants to give her $20. For some reason.
At the moment I am somewhere stuck between mouth-curling horror and hysterical laughter. In this note, filled with promises to 'perteckt' my daughter and sing her a song he wrote himself, this boy tells her that he always stares at her because she is 'hot'.
I am not ready to have a daughter who is hot.
So I of course took well-lit photos of the evidence and texted it to all of my friends and family in the hopes of getting some perspective. Some reason. Anything. Help me understand how a little girl who needs to sleep with two kitchen lights and a closet light on, who bites her toenails and loves to be tickled, who each night tucks her American Girl doll into a crib lined with kitchen towels, can be hot.
She isn't fucking hot. It's blasphemy.
Help me, blogosphere. gulp...help
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