Emily’s World: School Supplies
Completed: 9/30/04
Rating: G
Summary: Josh takes Emily school shopping
Author’s Notes: Second in the "Emily's World" Series
“What’s next on our list?”
“Crayons. Can we get some for home too?”
“Don’t you already have crayons at home?” I know she does because I step on them in her room all the time.
“Yes, but they’re not sharp anymore. Plus this box says new colors. I need new colors,” she says to me, pointing at a box of like fifteen thousand crayons by Crayola.
“You do?”
“Of course I do, Daddy. It helps me to learn.”
Really? “And how does it do that?” I’m trying to teach her to fight for her cause.
“It helps my magicnation.” She’s getting pretty good at it.
“Imagination….” Now she’s looking at me with her little pout/dimple mixture that she got from Donna and me. I’m helpless when she uses it. “Ok. Put two boxes in the cart.”
“Thanks, Daddy,” she says, hugging my leg. There’s little I wouldn’t do the hear that high little squeaky voice she uses when she gets excited, so I’m happy with my decision to spend the extra $2.75 on crayons with new colors to help her imagination.
“What’s next on our list?”
“Past… past… I don’t know.”
I look at the list. “What does the ‘e’ at the end mean?”
“It means the ‘a’ is long.”
“So try again.”
“Paste. What’s paste?”
“It’s glue,” I say, heading to the Elmer section of the isle.
“Why don’t they call it glue?” Five year-olds ask a lot of questions. This is something they don’t tell you when you decide to have children. Not that I’m complaining. She’s a smart child and she wants to understand things. I’m just saying, I wasn’t warned.
“They’re trying to confuse us, I guess,” I answer.
“Are they republicans?”
“Probably. But, it’s kind of like how mommy calls soda pop.”
“Which is just silliness.”
“Yes it is, but Mommy’s from Wisconsin, and they call it pop there.”
“Because they’re silly?”
“And they’re republicans.”
“How did she ever live there?” my brilliant five year old asks, shaking her head in dismay.
“It’s a mystery, sweetheart. Now, which glue should we get?” I say, stressing the word glue.
She looks them over carefully, like she has almost everything we’ve picked out. This little trip to Target is taking us forever. “I think I want this one. It says less mess. Mommy says I’m messy and that I got it from you and that I should try to be less messy because it’s too late for you but not for me.”
“She says that, huh?” I’m convinced that my wife attributes all of Emily’s bad habits to me and good habits to her.
“Yes,” she replies innocently.
“Well, I’ll tell you a secret. Mommy likes cleaning up after me.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” I say matter-of-factly, putting the less messy glue stick in the cart. “What’s next?”
“We better get one of those for home too.”
“Why?”
“So I can glue things,” she says in her ‘duh’ voice.
“What do you want to glue?”
“Hmm… I don’t know. Maybe I could make a college.”
“A collage.”
Her eyes get big. “Yes, that too!”
Ok, whatever. I put the second glue in the cart, deciding it’s best not to ask questions. “What’s next?”
“A pencil case or box. What’s a pencil case?”
“It’s a bag you put your pencils in it so they don’t get lost or broken.” We go one isle over and there are several pencil boxes and bags to choose from with designs and cartoons all over them. “Which one do you want?”
“Hmm… let me see.” Oh no, the ‘let me see.’ That means we could be here for hours while she tries to decide between them.
“How ‘bout Sponge Bob?”
“Daddy,” she says looking up at me, very seriously. “Can I tell you something?”
“Sure.”
“I can be honest?”
“Always.”
She tugs on my pants leg until I kneel down so I’m at eye level with her, and then she whispers, “I don’t like Sponge Bob all that much.”
“But, we watch Sponge Bob every Saturday morning.” What does she mean, she doesn’t like Sponge Bob? Everyone likes Sponge Bob.
“Well yeah, but… that’s cause you like him and I like it when you watch T.V. with me.”
“Really?”
“And you don’t like Blue’s Clues, so we watch Sponge Bob,” she says, shrugging her shoulders.
Now I’m in Target trying not to cry because my daughter forces herself to watch a cartoon she doesn’t like just because she likes spending time with me. “Well, we should watch something we both like from now on, or we could play Scrabble Jr. or make breakfast. Or, if it’s nice, we could go to the park.”
Now she gets a huge smile on her face. “Really? And it can still be just the two of us while Mommy sleeps in?”
“Just the two of us,” I say, nodding. She wraps her arms around my neck and squeezes with all her strength, and I realize that they don’t tell you about this part of parenthood either. The crying in Target part.
“If I get Barbie will you make fun of me?” she whispers in my ear.
I hate Barbie. “No, I won’t make fun of you, but you’re prettier than Barbie.”
“I know,” she says cheerfully, pulling away from me and picking up the Barbie and the Sponge Bob pencil bags from the shelf.
“We need both?” I ask, standing up and trying to act like, you know, a man.
“You lose pencils at home all the time, so you probably need one too,” she answers. “Next we have a box of tisooses.”
“What?” I ask, looking at the list. “Oh, tissues. Those are in another isle, what’s next?”
“Folders. It doesn’t say how many.” We walk one more isle over and I stare dumfounded at the folders. There are cartoon folders, Barbie folders, rock star folders, movie star folders, folders with stars, folders with animals, sparkly folders, tie-dye folders, and plain folders. The entire isle is nothing but folders. “Wow!” she says, in awe.
“Pick some out,” I say weakly, hoping we don’t spend the rest of our lives in this isle.
“How many should I get?”
“I don’t know. Ten?”
”Ten?” she asks surprised.
“How about this. I’ll count to thirty. You can have as many as you have in the cart by then.”
“You have to count slow.”
“Medium.”
“Deal.” We shake on it and I start counting as she starts ripping folders from their slots, throwing them towards the cart in a fashion that reminds me of her mother at a shoe sale. When I’m done counting she has twenty-seven folders in the cart. Well, I misjudged that one.
“What’s next?”
“Index cards.”
“Index cards?”
“Mommy added it.”
“Mommy added index cards to your school supply list?”
“Yes.”
“Why?’
”We like index cards.”
“You and Mommy use index cards?”
“We like to be organized.”
“Of course, why am I surprised? What color would you like?” I say, looking at the index cards.
“These…. multi-colored ones. Is that right?”
“Yes, multi-colored.”
“Does that mean lots of colors?”
“Multi means multiple, or many.”
“That makes sense. Those are the ones.”
“One package?”
“We better get two. One for me and one for Mommy.”
“Right. Good thinking.” My wife is such a nerd. “What’s next?”
“A coloring book?”
“A coloring book?”
“Well, it’s not on the list, but I’d like one please,” she says innocently.
“Don’t you have a million coloring books?”
“Only nine. But… aren’t they helpful when we go on car trips? They keep me quiet.”
“Good argument, young lady, but perhaps a reading book would be better.”
“How about two coloring books and one reading book?”
“How about one coloring book and two reading books?”
“How about two of each?”
“And two kisses.”
She looks at me and ponders this for a moment. “Two coloring books, two reading books, two kisses, and an ice cream cone on the way home.”
“Deal.” We shake on it and she adds two coloring books into the cart, then pulls me down and gives me a kiss on each cheek. “What’s next?” I ask.
“A big eraser. We should probably get two.”
“One for home?”
She nods. “Yeah, I’m still little. I make lots of mistakes.”
“Well, so do I, and I’m big,” I say tossing two erasers into the cart.
“I know, Mommy told me.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” she innocently replies, again.
“Well, Mommy makes mistakes too.”
She looks at me very seriously. “No she doesn’t, Daddy.”
“She doesn’t?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“She told me.”
“Of course she did.”
“Daddy, do you think I’m going to like kindergarten?” she asks me shyly.
I look at her and truth be told, I wonder. She’s reading at about a second-grade reading level, she’s adding and subtracting, she can tell time and count money. She’s way too advanced for kindergarten. “I think so. It might be a little easy for you, but I think it’ll be fun,” I say to her.
“Mom says I get to go to art class and music class and gym class, plus she says we’re still going to have school at home so I don’t get lazy with my learning.”
I nod. “That’s right. Plus you’ll make lots of new friends at school.”
“You don’t think any of them will be republicans, do you?”
I sigh. No use lying to the child. “It’s possible.”
She sighs back and shakes her head. “They should have schools for just democrats.”
Can’t fault that logic.
**********
“Ok, Em, this is the most important part of the day.”
“Mommy said you’d say that,” she says, smiling.
“She did?”
“Yes.”
“She says a lot of stuff about me, doesn’t she?”
“She likes you.”
“Well, I like her too.”
“But she likes you, likes you.”
I smile at her. The fact that my wife is still crazy about me makes me feel like a king. “Well, I like her, like her too.”
“Is that why you kiss her?”
“Yes.”
“Kissing’s gross.” Emily's a little freaky about kissing. She only likes to be kissed on the cheek, and she only kisses on the cheek. It’s a rule of hers. I’m hoping it continues well into her thirties.
“Not once your married, it’s ok then.”
“If you say so,” she says, full of doubt.
“So, what do you think?” I ask, looking at the wall.
“Hmm… let me see.”
“Take your time. A book bag is very important. It’s a reflection of who you are. It makes a statement. It says ‘I’m practical, but I’m cool.’ The right book bag can make people look at you in awe. It can give you power. This is not a decision to be taken lightly. The right book bag will call to you. It will say, ‘Emily, take me home.’”
“Daddy, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I like the pink one.”
“Pink? Where?”
“Right there, with the kitten on it.” I look at the bag she’s pointing at. It’s disgusting.
“Are you sure? I don’t know Em, it’s pretty girly.”
“I’m a girl, Daddy.”
“Well, yes, but...it has a cat on it.”
“I know. It’s pretty.” I pull it down and start tugging on the straps. Maybe it’ll be a piece of crap. Damn, it’s sturdy.
“Are you sure this is the one, Em? Look at that one up there.”
She looks up at the bag I’m pointing at, then looks back at me. “It’s black.”
“Yes.”
“And plain.”
I nod. “Yes.”
“There’s no kitten.”
“Nope, no kitten.”
She frowns, and then her eyes light up. “There’s one with a bunny,” she says pointing to another one. I hang my head. It’s only getting worse.
“A bunny?”
“Bunny’s are cool. Mommy calls you a rabbit sometimes.”
My jaw drops open. I’m mortified. My wife talks to my daughter about my sex drive? “Don’t tell anyone that.”
“Ok. I like the bunny one.”
“Better than the cat?” Why am I bothering to ask. It can’t get any worse.
“Yes. Wait!” she screams.
“What?”
“That’s it. That’s the one. It’s calling me.”
“Calling you?”
“Yes, calling me.” I look over at a purple book bag with a unicorn on it. It’s crude. I groan.
“Are you sure? Maybe a different book bag is calling you and you’re confused.”
“Nope, that’s the one calling me.” I look at her and she’s staring at the book bag with a gleam in her eye. She’s right; it’s calling her.
**********
“How’s the ice cream back there?” I ask while we’re driving through Dupont Circle towards Georgetown.
“Yummy, thank you.”
“You aren’t dripping, are you?”
“Yes.”
“Yes? Well… stop.”
“It’s ice cream Daddy,” she says as if that explains it all. “Mommy says I’m not supposed to eat ice cream in the car, cause I’m too messy.”
“Like me, I suppose.”
“Right.”
“Well, we were in a hurry. Where have you dripped?”
“My hands, my arms…” she pauses. “My shirt, my pants, and the seat.”
“Great,” I say sarcastically. “That’s great. Anywhere else?”
“I think it’s in my hair.”
“Of course it is.”
**********
“We’re home,” Emily yells as we walk in the door.
“Hi, did you two have fun on your… what happened to you?” she asks Emily.
“I told Daddy I’m not supposed to eat ice cream in the car but he said we were in a hurry.”
“Did you tell Daddy that you’re not allowed ice cream an hour before supper?”
She shakes her head. “No. I was negoshiting and it didn’t come up.”
“Negotiating,” I say quietly.
“Right.”
“Who did better?” Donna asks.
“I did,” I say, kissing my wife on the cheek.
Emily shakes her head. “I won, Mommy.”
Donna smiles at us, which tells me I’m not in too much trouble. “Let me hear it.”
“I got two reading books, two coloring books, and an ice cream cone.”
“And you?” she asks me.
I frown. “Two kisses.”
“I see,” my wife says, nodding. “Emily, may I have two kisses?”
“Sure Mommy.” Donna leans down and Emily kisses her twice on the cheek. What the hell?
“Thank you, now go hop in the bathtub.”
“Ok,” she says cheerfully and walks off to the bathroom.
Donna looks at me as if to tell me I lost, but just then, Emily runs back into the living room and jumps into my arms, throwing her arms around my neck, no doubt covering me in ice cream. “Thanks for taking me school shopping Daddy. I love you,” she whispers. Then she jumps down and disappears again.
Turning to mush; another thing they don’t warn you about. “Ok,” says Donna, smiling. “You won.”