Deep Thoughts

I am driving Hannah home from Circus Juventas, a youth circus arts school where she takes a trapeze class on Tuesday afternoons.  Just as we were getting into the car, she had said something about me being stupid.

“I don’t like that language,” I say.  Again.

“I didn’t mean stupid stupid,” she equivocates. “I meant it in the good way.”

“It sounded like stupid to me,” I say.

“I don’t really think you’re stupid,” she says. “But you can be annoying and embarrassing sometimes.”

I’m not sure we’re really getting anywhere.

I stop at a red light.  And I hear her say, “But . . . deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep . . . ”

The light changes.

“. . . deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep . . .”

I am being chanted a mantra. My mind wanders.  We come to our cross street.  I turn.

“. . . deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep . . . “

I negotiate the frozen ruts and mounds of snow, trying to avoid the worst bumps.  We come to our house.  I pull up in front.

“ . . . deep down inside, I really love you,” she says.

I laugh.  “I love you, too,” I say.

Verdict

Hannah and I have been tangling, on and off, off and on, pretty much since Christmas.  On Saturday, I took her to a dance clinic at her school, led by the dance team for younger students. I dropped her off, then went back at the appointed team to watch as she and the other kids performed their hip hop moves. Afterward, I took her to Subway for a sandwich.

I’m not a fool, so I asked her what she wanted EXACTLY.  She told me.  I ordered it.  A toasted twelve-inch sandwich on Italian bread with turkey, shredded cheese, orange cheese and mayo.  She went to find a table while I paid.  I brought the food to her and sat down on the stool next to hers.  She took the bag and gave me a look of disgust.  Apparently, I had ordered in NOT EXACTLY the right way. I had said “orange cheese” as opposed to “cheddar cheese.”

“You are so not cool,” she said.

Oh, you don’t know the half of it, I thought.  I was uncool before uncool was uncool.  I am part of Square Nation.  And darned proud of it, too.

But still, it bugs me just a little, to be deemed so not cool by someone who is so not yet seven years old.

A Piece of Paper

“Sarah and I got into an argument yesterday,” Hannah tells me as we are driving to school.

“About what?” I ask.

“She said two men or two women can’t get married, but I said they can.”

“You’re both right,” I say.  “Two men or two women can’t get married in some places, but they can in others.”

“Like where?” Hannah asks.

“Well, they can’t get married here in Minnesota,” I say.  Hannah knows this.  She also knows that Jane and I did get “married,” but that “the government doesn’t think it was real.”

These are the things we have to explain to our children.  We’re married, but we’re not.  What you know to be true in your life is not true in the eyes of the government.  Sometimes the government is wrong.

“But two men or two women can get married in other places like Iowa or Massachusetts.”

I remind her of a long-time friend of ours who moved to Massachusetts with his partner and got married there.  Hannah is intrigued.

“Did they get a piece of paper?” Hannah asks.

A marriage license?  I don’t know where she’s going with this.

“Yes,” I say.

“Did they come back to Minnesota and show it to the government?” she asks hopefully.

In her mind, this is probably all that is needed.  Maybe the government here in Minnesota doesn’t know that gay people can get married in some places.  Maybe they just need to be informed.  Maybe life would be better if it followed the logic of first graders.

“I don’t know,” I say.  It may be worth a try.

Trousseau

I am sitting on the futon on the front porch, working.  Hannah comes onto the porch, grabs the Perfect Wedding Guide and my cell phone and makes off for the living room. 

“I need that back,” I call.  “You don’t get to keep it.”  My glasses disappeared recently, into her hands, I am convinced.  They haven’t turned up in weeks, and she swears her innocence.  I don’t want my cell phone to fall into the same black hole.

“I have to make a call,” Hannah says.

“To who?” I ask.

Silence.

“Who are you calling?” I repeat.

“I want to buy dresses for you and Mommy.”  Let’s be clear.  She means wedding dresses.  As in gowns.  Specifically, the silky lavender one for me and the lacey white one for Jane.

Oh, my.

“I think that’s a little premature,” I say, since there is no wedding in the plans.

“But it’s your anniversary,” she says, sounding disappointed.  She’s right.  Jane and I will celebrate our twenty-fifth anniversary in September, but not with an elaborate wedding, much to Hannah’s disappointment.  And without wedding gowns.

I go and get the phone.

“That’s so sweet of you, Hanner,” I say, and give her a kiss.  “That’s just about the sweetest thing ever.”