Good Girl Houses
My 4 y.o. has intensely loved from birth the only present sent to her from Manhattan when she was born, a square of pink fleece with a bunny head on one corner. She needs Good Girl around. My daughter's first words were naming the bunny, "good girl". I walked around holding my beloved calling her my good girl, and she had a soft thing to carry around that she loved, so she named her Good Girl too.
Good Girl has caused me unimaginable suffering. She is always lost and I always have to find her. It consumes my time in a way that must count for some kind of Olympic parenting. My husband has tracked miles through Sports Directs, movie theatres, I've been back to hospitals, we have begged our neighbour to drive us back to parking lots in hail storms, Good Girl has been dropped on the Trumpington Road Bike Path, left in Public Toilets, deliberately hidden by Liberty to forestall us getting our flights back to the UK. We always find Good Girl. But I do not appreciate the demands this makes upon my time. Also Good Girl gets disgustingly dirty. Liberty treats that thing like the towel in Hitchikers' Guide to the Galaxy. And in the UK washing things requires a lot of attention. Just figuring out how to use their washing machines is so hard.
Liberty left Good Girl at Funky Fun House on Saturday afternoo. She was attending Edoardo's 4th birthday party - a very sophisticated gathering of Italian biologists and infomaticians (that is what they called themselves) and a reminder that it doesn't completely suck to live in Cambridge all the time. Snow was falling thick and fast and my husband was away and Liberty was trying on a little howling for despair, I lost it. I stood on the ground floor and bellowed to Liberty and Owain upstairs that GOOD GIRL WAS NEVER LEAVING THE HOUSE EVER AGAIN UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES EVER EVER AGAIN.
There is a complicated sub-plot involving a substitute introduced too early who is now known as GOOD GIRL'S SISTER but I set that aside.
Liberty actually seems seriously fine with the new bright line. She has a new line in subversive activity to keep her busy. Her astounding nursery school, Homerton, is letting the kids model junk. They glue pieces of paper onto cardboard cartons for eggs, cat food, smoothies. Liberty started bringing so many home that it annoyed me. She immediately thought this reaction was the most charming thing ever and one that she had to have again at all costs. She started bringing home huge grocery bags of these junk sculptures. They are houses for Good Girl and Good Girl's Sister, tents for them, make-up cases for them, fun things for them. I have started putting them straight in the trash, which I don't think Liberty actually minds. As long as she gets a good whiff of annoyance from me she is good.
Good Girl has caused me unimaginable suffering. She is always lost and I always have to find her. It consumes my time in a way that must count for some kind of Olympic parenting. My husband has tracked miles through Sports Directs, movie theatres, I've been back to hospitals, we have begged our neighbour to drive us back to parking lots in hail storms, Good Girl has been dropped on the Trumpington Road Bike Path, left in Public Toilets, deliberately hidden by Liberty to forestall us getting our flights back to the UK. We always find Good Girl. But I do not appreciate the demands this makes upon my time. Also Good Girl gets disgustingly dirty. Liberty treats that thing like the towel in Hitchikers' Guide to the Galaxy. And in the UK washing things requires a lot of attention. Just figuring out how to use their washing machines is so hard.
Liberty left Good Girl at Funky Fun House on Saturday afternoo. She was attending Edoardo's 4th birthday party - a very sophisticated gathering of Italian biologists and infomaticians (that is what they called themselves) and a reminder that it doesn't completely suck to live in Cambridge all the time. Snow was falling thick and fast and my husband was away and Liberty was trying on a little howling for despair, I lost it. I stood on the ground floor and bellowed to Liberty and Owain upstairs that GOOD GIRL WAS NEVER LEAVING THE HOUSE EVER AGAIN UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES EVER EVER AGAIN.
There is a complicated sub-plot involving a substitute introduced too early who is now known as GOOD GIRL'S SISTER but I set that aside.
Liberty actually seems seriously fine with the new bright line. She has a new line in subversive activity to keep her busy. Her astounding nursery school, Homerton, is letting the kids model junk. They glue pieces of paper onto cardboard cartons for eggs, cat food, smoothies. Liberty started bringing so many home that it annoyed me. She immediately thought this reaction was the most charming thing ever and one that she had to have again at all costs. She started bringing home huge grocery bags of these junk sculptures. They are houses for Good Girl and Good Girl's Sister, tents for them, make-up cases for them, fun things for them. I have started putting them straight in the trash, which I don't think Liberty actually minds. As long as she gets a good whiff of annoyance from me she is good.
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