I think Frankie and I will be good friends when she grows up. She's got her father's Polish bone structure and tendency to be tidy (I find piles of the clothes she's not tall enough to hang up in her closet littering my bedroom or the hallway because she can't stand them to be messing up her room), but I still think we'll get along famously. She's the only five-year-old I know with an actual sense of humor. Whenever Molly says something outlandish about wanting to be a spider when she grows up and doing things with her long spider arms, Frankie and I just nod quietly to Molly's face and then raise our eyebrows and make meaningful comedic eye contact. I can't stress the importance of meaningful eye contact. When something funny occurs in a group setting and there is no one with whom I can lock eyes and acknowledge it, a small part of me dies. So I am heartened when things happen like the other day, when Frankie and I were in the kitchen and heard Molly saying to her Strawberry Shortcake doll "That's it, Strawberry, I'm leaving!." Frankie looked me in the eye and said, perfectly deadpan, "Wow. I guess Strawberry's having a hard day."
That's my girl.