Bubble Tape

Saturday, I got home from work to find a slew of little girls running through the neighborhood. Mine, of course, being the grimiest of the bunch. There was some obligatory screaming and shrieking (girls seem to be unable to communicate with each other in decibel levels that do not cause spontaneous eardrum bleeding), but in general, they didn't fight.

We have discovered one of the basic rules about girls--if you want anything resembling peace, you MUST keep even numbers. Odd numbered groups are bound for hell--and they're taking you with them.

The Howler is in all her glory--roaming the neighborhood, in a wild, raised-by-wolves pack. Again, I cannot stress enough the layers of neighborhood grime on the girl. I imagine that she's akin to the Great Dust Bowl sand storms of the 1930's.

But, the high point of the evening was shortly after I got home.

The Pack had disappeared around the house, and the Howler came straggling back to the patio--to us. She is a vision of Schultz's Pig Pen, accompanied by a dust cloud. She's standing there, holding a pink container, whinging.

"They all ran down there. They all have caterpillars and I don't. I'm thirsty. When's supper? I fell off my bike earlier and no one cared. Why can't I have a caterpillar? They won't give me one. They won't help me find one, either. Will you guys help me find one? I want my own caterpillar. Can I have a Coke? When's supper? Can I go play down there ? My Bubble Tape is all gone !" She stomped her foot.

I'm constantly amazed at how her mind works--how did we get from wanting a caterpillar of her very own to being upset because she has no Bubble Tape?