Let's Begin By Name-Calling

Lola is in Chorus. Don't know how that happened, because she is genetically indisposed to carrying a tune. In my opinion, she'd be better suited to playing flugelhorn in the concert band, being that she has the requisite red hair and freckles, as well as the large frame that supports massive volumes of hot air. In any event, they let her in Chorus for the second year. Maybe it's because the child can sell some cheesecake, which is the focus of their fundraising activities each Fall.

I think the combination of her competitive nature and her obsession for sweets is what makes her so successful, or perhaps it's her own special Turf War. We heard the other day that the parents of a younger kid in the neighborhood, a sixth-grade chorus student, had complained to the director that Lo had beaten the girl to the door of every house within the three-mile radius of our subdivision. Said parents argued that it's against the rules to sell to people you don't know. My response on Lola's behalf: You snooze, you lose. If the buyers didn't know her before, they know her now. No one meets Lola and forgets her. Besides, she's lived here for almost 13 years, since before she was old enough to ask "Whassup?"(her first word) to anyone who approached her or passed by us when I had her out in the jogging stroller.

So she sold $425 in cheesecake products and was anticipating huge rewards in the way of prizes and fame. On the morning the money was due, we sat down and figured everything up again, filled out the forms, etc., and had everything ready to go. This was a big deal, because she didn't tell me it was due until 7 a.m. the day of, and I HATE to add anything to my morning routine that already includes making her three frozen waffles with peanut butter and syrup and fixing her lunch. Yes, I know she's old enough to do these things herself, but she's convinced that "You'd do it for Jack" (her 20-yr-old brother), something I cannot deny, so I feel obligated. I do do everything Jack asks me to due to the residual divorce guilt from 17 years ago. Ever since he was three and said, "I know Dad's coming back; you still have two pillows on your bed," I have been at his beck and call. All that to say I squeezed the record-checking in between packing her lunch and looking at Pinterest and did a lot of yelling to make me feel better about it.

Anyway, she left to walk to the bus stop about two minutes ahead of me, and as I gathered my purse and laptop, I noticed she'd left that important giant envelope on the railing by the front door. I grabbed it and ran after her, yelling her name. She jalked back to meet me halfway.

"You're an idiot," I said.

"I might be," she replied. "But I'm your idiot."