Remembering Six

My daughter turned six last week. Am I scared of her growing up? Who, me? Who said that? So what if she came home yesterday proclaiming the “greatest action hero” to be Bruce Willis? So what if she asked me what the Suite Life is and why her friend at school thinks it’s the greatest? Why would I be scared of that? Why would I be scared of all the kissing games and marriage games taking place in kindergarten (gulp)? I am totally (gulp) prepared. After all, I used to be a six-year-old myself. I’ve been thinking on that. Here’s some things I did when I was six:

(1) Kicked a crocodile-skin high-heeled pump through a large plate-glass window in our house. I was dancing. [Insert jazz hands]

(2) Shared a “boyfriend” with my best friend, Jenny Byrne. This is the closest I ever came to being Mormon. Our affair was played out as a chess game, with one or the other sister-wife getting her turn each day. A chess turn, people. A chess turn.

(3) Learned the f-word, from some girl whose house we used to go to after school every day. I believe she used it on her grandma.

Did I say I’m not scared? All that stuff seems so innocent now, so age-appropriately innocent. Times have really changed — thong underwear designed for kids, 24/7 access to porn, teenage vampires. Not to be a chicken little, but I am so in for a ride (gulp). Heeeeere weeeeee goooooooooooooooooo!

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