Milk Face
At the 4th grade Holiday
performance this morning, my daughter was by far the best whistler. I’m
bragging. Which isn’t like me. But there’s a reason why: by being the best
whistler, my 4th grader effectively blew away the small rather arrogant boy standing near her who
frequently calls her “milk face.”
We are pale people. We don’t tan,
and if we are even partly naked in the sun we tend to blind people with our
reflection. My 4th grade daughter also happens to be a platinum
(natural – no toddler tiara funny business here) blonde. So you can probably
conclude where the name “milk face” came from.
When my milk face daughter told me
of the boy’s name-calling, I hugged her tight and told her what every good
parent does – that Mr silent pursed-lipped faker face is really short so he’s
definitely going to grow up angry. (She hasn’t studied the French Revolution
yet so I skipped the most obvious reference for his condition.) Then I pushed
her away, ran to my desk and scribbled “Milk Face!” on the back of an old AT
&T bill.
I did the same thing with “Caption
Obvious.” This time the name was hurled at me by my 14 year-old daughter. I had
done about as much to deserve this as good ole Milk Face had done to deserve
her verbal abuse: nothing. I’d merely pointed out that Miss 14 year-old sassy
pants had better study for her European History test instead of watching Glee.
“Duh. Thank you Caption Obvious.”
I know I should have taken her
phone away, or made her clean up the dog poop in the yard, but instead I waved
her away, ran to my desk and scribbled down “Caption Obvious!” on the back of a mortgage statement.
Good dialogue is precious. The kind
that you can’t-no-way-not-a-chance-make-up on your own supersedes all
comforting and punishing. I mean milk
face? How good is that.
Which leads me to conclude that
writers are bad parents. At least fiction writers. We have to make stuff up,
and it’s hard. Like trying to bend a spoon with your mind hard. We need all the
help we can get and if that means abusive, disrespectful name-calling, then
fine.
Bring it on, Shawty.
