It was a lovely May evening–a perfect 70 degrees outside, breezy with the smell of fresh-cut grass in the air. The family had decided to eat dinner on the porch, just munching and enjoying a comfortable silence.
“Mom, what part of your body bleeds the most?” Wondergirl asked. I swallowed my bite of steak, trying to buy time and think of what to say.
“Um, the neck, I think.” What the heezy? Where did that come from? Had she just been sitting here thinking about bleeding the whole time? Why the green beans did she need to know that? While sitting here with her family? Maybe it doesn’t seem strange to you, but here’s what (I’m pretty sure) the rest of us were thinking about:
The Big Man: Bills
Me: Why everyone’s clothes got too small all at once and who was going to have to walk around looking homeless for a while. It will probably be me.
The Destroyer: WWE 2K14.
The Weirdo: Thomas the Tank Engine.
You see? These are the things normal people think about. (Although I wish that the Weirdo would outgrow Thomas already. He’s six, it’s time to grow up.) My nine-year-old daughter is thinking about bleeding.
I know what you’re thinking. “Maybe she’ll be a doctor someday,” or something innocent like that. Maybe, but here’s the thing: Wondergirl is always saying crap like this.
For instance: She revealed in a conversation with my sister, Birdie, that she fully expects her death to be avenged by her father, in the event that someone kills her. She then elaborated that even though she would be dead, it would be okay because the person who killed her would be dead too. And she would be glad that they were dead because they deserved it for killing her. My Wondergirl says, “But I can’t die because too many people love me and they would be too sad.”
Birdie later told me, “And then she was silent for about ten minutes. I stopped for a minute, and was like, ‘Um, what are you thinking about?'”
Or: While watching the Simpsons, Moe was threatening to jump of a building and no one cared. That was the joke. Wondergirl says, “If I saw someone who wanted to jump off a building, I would push them.” And that was all she said. No explanations. I thought maybe she was joking; our family has a pretty dark sense of humor. But she just got up, made herself a snack and went to her room, leaving The Big Man and me in mute shock. The Destroyer sat up, stretched, and said, “That’s about right.” The Weirdo kept playing trains. He doesn’t talk much.
I don’t know. Wondergirl likes animals, so we haven’t found any random dead or tortured cats. She can be the sweetest thing in the world at times. She loves to help me when she feels like it. She has stopped scratching up her brothers’ faces. (For about five years, it looked like Wolverine lived at our house. I threatened, punished and threatened some more, but in the end it just took one good shove from The Destroyer and she cut that mess right out.)
I have seen her smack one brother in the head, elbow the other, and then skip away in her pink tutu, ponytail a-swishing. Like some straight up violence didn’t just go down.
I tried to talk to her about bullying at school. She cut me off mid sentence, (because I was apparently wasting her time with this nonsense) looked me dead in the eye, pointed her little thumb at her chest and said, “Nobody bullies ME.” And that was the end of that conversation.
Wondergirl, my cute sweet baby girl said to her brother, “Weirdo, don’t come in my room. There is nothing but pain for you in here.”
Yesterday she asked me a follow-up question, “So, if you neck bleeds the most, do you have to cut it or just poke it?”
Whaaa? The boys are getting locks on their doors.
It’s not all bad. I’m sure if Wondergirl ever got kidnapped, she’d be home within hours, filling up a deep hole in the backyard and telling me, “You didn’t see nothin.”