Thursday, November 12, 2009
There was Bob’s sweet girlfriend from summer school who let her mother and I in on the secret that she and Bob are married and that they would be going to the movies very soon, without us. Bob was more than cool with it.
He was also quite enamored with our friend Ilene who Bob refers to as, “Miss Ilene, my tiny grapefruit.”
Then, Winnie’s mother from school, or as Bob calls her, Mrs. Winnie’s Mama. When she works in our co-op classroom, Bob wants to hold Mrs. Winnie’s Mama’s hand. The only time he has used the bathroom at school, he asked Mrs. Winnie's Mama for help. (That’s one lucky lady.)
And now (cue the harps) there is Ava. Ava is a beautiful older woman (almost 4) with a porcelain doll face and a head of Pre-Raphaelite curls. Bob first met Ava at the park where he came to quickly adore her and yet be simultaneously frightened of her, which everyone knows, is the standard recipe for romance.
Any person that Bob now sees with curly hair is pointed out as having, “Curly hair, like Ava’s.”
I usually flat iron my hair as I lack the patience and endurance to deal with my naturally wavy hair explosion. On a recent lazy day where I was wearing the waves, Bob asked, “Mama you have curly hair?”
“Sometimes,” I said.
“Well, Ava has curly hair all the time.”
On a recent playdate at the botanical gardens with Ava and her mother, Bob pulled me aside. “I love Ava, Mama.”
“That’s so nice Bob. Did you tell her?”
He whispered, “No. I couldn’t want to.”
Back home, Bob and I were hanging out on the bed with the dog. “Bob? Who’s my favorite dog?”
“That’s right! Who’s my favorite little man?”
“Yes! Who do I love so much?”
“Right again! Who is handsome and smart and wonderful?”
He’s a goner.