Me: (to Doug) “I kinda want a beer.”
Billie: “You can’t have one. That’s Dad’s super hero juice.”
Doug: “Uh. Maybe don’t say that? It kinda makes me sound like a bad dad.”
Billie: “Nope. It makes you sound like a dad. Just a dad. It’s natural. You’re fine.”
Billie: (whispering) “Father.”
Doug: (sleeping)
Billie: “Faaaaaather. Father. FATHER.”
Doug: (Barely awake) “Hm? Yes, Billie?”
Billie: “How do you print pictures off your phone?”
Doug: (Goes right back to sleep)
Billie: “Father! Awaken father! This is important!”
Doug: (sleeping)
Me: “Billie. Let us sleep. Why do you need to print pictures at 8am on a Saturday?”
Billie: “For the revolution, Mother. Father! Wake up! We revolt at noon! I need to print the pictures now!”
Doug: (sleeping)
Me: “Wait. What revolution is happening?”
Billie: THE revolution, mother. The one that is happening in all of us.”
Me: “I’m going to need you to let us sleep. If you want a good revolution then we’re going to have to be rested.”
Billie: (throws her whole body on me hella dramatically) “THE REVOLUTION RESTS FOR NO ONE. NOW LET US GO, FATHER! TO THE PRINTERRR!!!”
Doug: (Still. Friggin. Sleeping.)
Billie: “Good point. You stay here. I’ll rally the troops.”
Watching Billie at gymnastics is probably one of my most favorite things. The other kids sit quietly and watch the coach execute a trick and Billie is 15 feet behind them doing the trick in the background- adding an extra cartwheel or hand flourish for additional flair.
While everyone stands in line for their turn at the bar, Billie is a flurry of motion- hands raised over her head, palms pressed toward the ceiling before slapping them to her thighs dramatically and throwing her head back.
She’s never not moving, not thinking about the movement. I watch her get lost in the spins and the flips and, while her body contorts and slams into the floor, her eyes are still. Calm. Quiet. It is this chaos where she goes to find peace. It’s her Church, her sanctuary.
And she’s hard to teach because of this. How do you teach a child a movement when they can’t stop moving? How do you prep them for a fall they’re already smacking into the ground? How can you teach them a routine when they’ve already made up four routines of their own in the time it took you to explain the first eight count? It’s teaching a tornado to tap dance.
And the teachers who get her? Who somehow penetrate the wall of wind and limbs and crazy and find the little human inside long enough to teach her how to tuck her chin to her chest or point her toes in that cartwheel? They warm me in the most complete way. They show me that, yes, my child can be tough. She can crazy and unruly and intense. But she can be all those things and still learn. She can be all those things and still thrive. She can be all those things and still be loved more than she can handle at times. She can be all those things. She is my tap dancing tornado.
Billie: “Hey Mom! Wanna hear a poem?”
“Sure! Go for it.”
Billie: “Love is an adventure
But please hear
That death is nearly everywhere”
“Whoa. Beautiful. Where did you get that?”
Billie: “From my head. I made it up.”
“…”
Billie: “😁😁😁”
“Billie, my love, you are terrifying.
Billie: “Why, thank you! Thank you very much.”
Billie’s school had a movie night. I made Billie go home right after because it was late. She wanted to stay with her friends and play for a bit. She was stone silent on our walk to the car. I looked at her, “Are you mad at me?” I said while squeezing her hand affectionately.
“Not mad,” She says, “Just disappointed.”
Then she glares at me long and hard.
I laughed so intensely one of the parents asked me if I needed help.
While picking up Billie from school today:
Billie: “Mom! Where’d you come from?!”
Me: “Uh, our house. Where’d you come from?”
Billie: “Your UTERUS, WOMAN. I feel like you should know this.”
My kid. Definitely mine.
Billie: “There shouldn’t be toddlers in school. Because, if they’re learning, shouldn’t they be called ‘taught-lers?'”
🙄🙄🙄 It is too far passed her bedtime for me to be able to tolerate this.
It’s late. I get home to find Billie “sleeping” in my bed. I start getting into my PJ’s when she pops up from under the covers to surprise me.
Billie: “HEY WOMAAA— HOLY NAKED. YOU’RE NAKED.”
Me: “Yup. I’m naked. Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?”
Billie: “I like it best when I’m naked. You can really see the real you. When you’re naked you see who you are on the inside.”
Me: “Well, I mean, not technically.”
Billie: “Should we get technical and open you up? I know where the knives are.”
😳😓😂
Billie: “Mistakes are proof that you’re trying.”
Me: “Yes. But that was decidedly NOT a mistake.”
Billie: “It was a mistake I tell you! A mistake.”
Me: “Billie. You just started screaming about butts and Chinese food.”
Billie: “It was a song for America! Do you not like America?”
Me: “You were supposed to sing a lullaby for your cousin. Not a metal scream fest about booty and chow mein.”
Billie: “In my defense, I feel like every song should be about butts and Chinese food. Think about it, Mother. Just think about.”
Billie: “Hey Mom!”
Me: “Billie. Go to bed.”
Billie: “I made you a toy!”
Me: “It’s a piece of clear tape folded over on itself with glue inside it.”
Billie: “Yup!”
Me: “It squishes between my fingers.”
Billie: “It’s a squishy toy!”
Me: “There’s glue all over my fingers.”
Billie: “Oh. I guess the sides are still open.”
Me: “Billie. Go to bed.”
Billie: “I know the are some things I have to work on but you don’t need to take it out on my squishy toy.”
Billie's Momma 