For a six-year-old Fae

(Jane, I know this is late, but once I started thinking about it, I couldn’t stop and then I couldn’t blog a lot because . . . you  know . . . my own kids. But for you, Jane, because I love you.)

I’m six, and I like to swing.  Do you like to swing?  My Mommy is amazed that I can swing for hours making up songs and telling stories to nobody. But it’s not nobody. You’re here.  And so is Becky.  No one can see her, but I can.  She’s funny and smart and never shy and everyone likes her and she doesn’t talk funny like me.  Every Tuesday when school lets out early, we go for a picnic and then I have to go to a special school with just a teacher and me, and she makes me say all sorts of s words and all sorts of th words.  It’s ok. I like to color and talk to her.  But I wish we went to McDonald’s like all the other kids in my class, but Mommy says we don’t have the money, so we go to a park and have peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with chips.  I don’t like chips.  I don’t like my brothers either.  I have two of them.  And it’s not fair. T got hurt the other day.  He took one of my toys from my desk and I chased him and Mommy was on the phone so she looked at us and pointed outside so I chased him outside and we ran around and around the swing set until we were on opposite sides of the two-seater with the benches.  T stuck out his tongue and threw the swing at me.  I ducked and it swung back and hit him on the head because he turned around.  That was stupid because it’s a swing and they always come back. And then he went crying to Mommy.  And Mommy yelled at me because there was lots and lots of blood and T stopped breathing for a little while.  But he was still walking, so how was I suppose to know he was hurt bad? We all had to go to the doctor and Mommy had to call the dis- dis- dispatcher.  Mommy had to call the dispatcher to tell Daddy to meet us at the doctor’s.  Daddy came in his uniform and his car but we weren’t allowed in it that day.  Daddy is a police officer. He looks handsome in his uniform, but he’s bulgy and hard when I hug him.  Mommy says Daddy has to wear a special vest so he is safe when he’s at work. I hope he is safe. He works at nights and he can be awfully grumpy.  But sometimes he comes home to eat and he brings Luke’s and we can smell the fries and so we get up and rub our eyes and go hug Daddy.  And he gives us fries!  When I grow up, I will eat at Luke’s too.  When I grow up, I’m going to be a princess.  I already have a princess bed with a canopy and it’s all pink because that’s what princesses like. And I have long hair like a princess.  Mommy says if I don’t cut it, she’ll grow her hair long too.  I like her hair long.  It’s pretty.  I wear dresses all the time.  At my school, I have to wear a skirt every day.  I can’t wear pants.  I like that, except when it’s cold.  Then my knees hit together because I can’t stop them. I can wear tights, but I get in trouble if I wear tights because I can’t keep them straight. Mommy told Grandma that I was six so what do they expect of course my tights were going to get messy.  I get in trouble for talking a lot too.  I can’t help it.  I have so many things to say. And I get in big trouble when we go to church and I talk, but church is so boring at school.  They won’t let me look at the books.  When I go to church with my family and I sit between Grandma and Grandpa, they let me look at books and then I can see the rivers that run through the words and I follow them.  And if I unfocus my eyes I can see through the coating on the wood of the pews and there is another world there.  It’s not fair that I can’t see The Mother when I go to church at school.  Grandma lets me. At school, I’m really good at religion.  But they tell me I can’t be a priest, which I don’t think it fair. God loves me. Why can’t I say the mass?  I can wear dresses like them. My teachers tell me I’ll be a writer.  I got Student of the week Twice!  For my stories! I like telling them, but they hard to write. I write real slow and I can’t get all the words out that are in my head. I tried to write like Mommy, all flowy and curly, but no one could read my writing.  I couldn’t remember what I wrote the week after.

What?!  Mommy?!

I’m coming!

Mommy and Daddy say I talk a lot. They tease me about it.  They tell everyone how when we went to Canada this summer that I went with Aunty Per and Aunty Alice.  They’re my Grandma’s sisters, and I don’t see them a lot.  Just once a year.  Aunty Per is the tall skinny one, and Aunty Alice is the fat one.  I love them.  Anyways, I got to go in their car for the day when we were driving to Canada.  M was with my parents, and T went with my grandparents.  They have a motor home!  And Aunty Per and Aunty Alice let me sit in front with them on a pillow so I could see out and they fed me cherries and red grapes. I love cherries, and I like red grapes but Mommy never buys them.  She only buys green grapes.  So I sat in front talking the whole time, telling them all about my friends and school and stories and Becky and Teddy who came with me. I dressed him up in his dress so he would look good.  They say the only time I was quiet was when I fell asleep.  That was eight hours of driving.  Aunty Alice said I never repeated myself once.  Why would I?  There’s so much to tell!  I was reading this book about a big ship that no one said would sink and then it did and-

I’m coming, Mommy!  I’m coming!

I have to go now.  Mommy said it’s dinner time and then I have to water the plants.  Mommy says I’m good with them because I tell them stories and listen to them. Once-

I’m coming!

I better go.  Bye.


4 Responses to “For a six-year-old Fae”

  1. Jane Says:

    You ARE a princess! What a wonderful memoir. And I hadn’t realized we had so much in common! Except when I learned I couldn’t be a priest, I settled for being a nun – which didn’t happen, of course – but you? You questioned that silly rule. SInging, swinging, writing awards and the gift of gab. My parents nicknamed me CB for Chatterbox. You’re my sista-from-anotha-mista! Thanks for sharing this!

  2. glitter unicorn Says:

    “When I grow up, I’m going to be a princess. I already have a princess bed with a canopy”
    Me too, sort of! I had a unicorn bed. It was a purple canopy. I guess I did grow up since I’m a unicorn. I do have a tiara and a wand.

    My 6yo self used to write a diary, but mostly I wrote songs. I still do. I played the piano, rollerskated, and played basketball. Everything about growing up in an abusive “family” was about escapism. I remember writing about how I wanted to run away, for pages and pages. I wanted to be adopted by some other family, ANYONE. When I threw a penny in the fountain at the mall, I wished everytime for another family. In happy times, I talk and write and put words to my emotions for other people. In bad times, I dream about good things to myself and play music to take me away mentally.

    What is it with the green grapes over the red ones? Was there some red grape conspiracy in the 60s that we missed?

  3. Jane Says:

    P. S. I love you, too! xoxoxoxo

  4. faemom Says:

    Jane~ I always wanted a sister! I should have added that because my six-year-old self would have gone on and on and on about the horrors of little brothers and the injustice of having them at all.
    glitter unicorn~ (hugs) I’m sorry that you had such a hard childhood. What does not kill us and all that. And you make an awesome unicorn!

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