Maisie's 8

The social scene's too much for her--the back biting, the gossip. I remember last year, chaperoning a field trip to the baby wing at the hospital, watching two girls pumping these glares at her across the room--envious, I knew, because one of the hospital orderlies had just given her a little flashlight to keep. But it wasn't HER fault that the orderly gave it to her--wasn't HER doing. She put it in her pocket quickly, sensing the shift in the pack; you see it in the eyes. But too late. Venom--unmitigated, unedited, complete with curled lips from two little girls--two sweet-looking, curly-topped kids. They don't even use words, the girl-packs: they just stare. Everything's in the stare. In moments my child is in tears, quietly, not wanting anyone else to notice. But I saw it, and had this visceral reaction: remembering that stare from 35 years ago, then from Jill Rasmussen and Kelly Otis. Jill and Kelly. My miseries. The teacher wasn't noticing; no offense to teachers, but kids are good at slicing each other just off the radar. So I walked over to the kids and looked down on them--none of this on-their-level crap; I was pissed--and said, "There's no reason here to be mean, girls." And then I moved Maisie to the other side of the group, near one of her friends. On the bus, going back to school, one of the girls had the good grace to avoid my eyes, but the other glared at me--testing, testing. I glared right back, and she looked down. It's all so fricking primitive! Later on I called the parents. Both told me how nice their kids were--how well behaved, how well raised. Like it's remotely about that. Might have just as easily been my kid being awful. But it wasn't.

So yesterday, instead of the 15-kid blowout bash, she and her two best friends went to paint pottery. Great kids, lovely day. And today, at 8:51, she and I looked at the pictures from the hospital of the moment I became a mom, and she became my daughter, and she asked again to hear all the little details--who was there, who held her first, what was happening at 8:56, at 8:59, etc.

I love this kid. I don't remember my mother crying on my birthdays. Parents act off-radar, too, though.