The Girl Who Wasn't There

My girls have been going through a phase of discussing their "imaginary friends."

I think that, with the OG, who is eight, it is mostly an excuse to make new characters on the Wii. (For the unen-Wii-lightened, one may create "Miis" with different physical characteristics to play the different games. The OG alone has made about 30 of them, including "Mallory," "Vallory," "Janet," and "Carter." And no, I don't know why my daughter is stuck in the 80's in her naming of these friends. Perhaps we'll get a "Krystal" or a "Fallon" next.)

I know that this is typical of kids, and am not concerned about this as a phase at all. I worry a bit that this is a reaction to the fact that she hasn't gotten a lot of invitations to play from school friends this summer, though. Any invitations, really, besides a birthday party. Realistically, though, I don't think she's really noticed, as we've been gone so much, and been so busy during the time we've been home. And, she's played quite a bit with our friends' kids, whom I honestly think she prefers above all others, anyway. However, it does sort of bother me; I wonder if her school, chosen for its quality, suffers from the side effect of being a bit too clique-y.

The YG, though, has brought a new spin to this production. Of course, as the YG, she slavishly copies her older sister, and as this game provides an invitation for them to actually play together rather than engaging in fevered mutual antagonism, she promptly devised several imaginary friends of her own.

Just within the last week, the most prominent of her imaginary friends has been "Callie." Now, the thing about Callie is, is that the YG has begun to blame Callie for everything wrong that the YG does.

For example, she was talking loudly the other night, and keeping my mother and the OG awake. (My mom is visiting from KC, and taking care of the YG whilst I return to work, and before her school starts. They like to crash in the office bed together when she visits.)

I went in several times to tell her to shut it - nicely and motherly, of course, because how could I NOT speak to my children that way - and, she replied, "IT'S NOT ME! IT'S CALLIE! SHE'S TALKING!" We went through this dance three times before I carted her off to her own room, with her screaming the whole way that it was CALLIE'S fault, NOT hers, and that I should get CALLIE in trouble, not her!

Tonight, she hit her sister, probably for good reason; however, she again refused to admit fault, instead again blaming Callie. Callie doesn't pick up her plate after dinner, Callie got water all over the bathroom floor, and it was absolutely Callie who trashed the YG's room.

So, I think I need the services of an armchair psychologist, or perhaps an exorcist. Because this bitch Callie has GOT TO GO.

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Urgh, I'm working again. My summer is over, and I am so, so sad. Pity me?

I spent all day yesterday moving offices, and crying a bit, because I have good friends at my other office, and in general I am NOT GOOD WITH TRANSITIONS. (My mother, who as I mentioned is here right now, stated as much when she saw me last night. In her words, "You NEVER wanted to change grades, or change classes, EVER. When you were in preschool, you cried when you changed from the Blue Room to the Yellow Room." Yes, OG, you don't fall far from the tree.)

The combination of emotions, a return to getting up at six-friggin'-A-M, and a full day of manual labor just slayed me last night, and today. I feel as though a gang of street toughs has spent the day hitting me with a shovel.

However, I think I'll probably like my new office. It's bigger, and has a window, which is a big step up from the previous one. Annoyingly enough, however, the previous occupant retired, and in so doing, left all of her shite, including two large cabinets full of books and stuffed-full file folders (thus rendering it impossible for ME to put MY shite in them).

And, she left flamingoes. Flamingo pens, flamingo cups, flamingo decorations, and a big ol' flamingo poster. If it had a flamingo on it - or was indeed flamingo-colored - it appears to be in this office.

The pack rat in me hates to throw things away, thinking that someone, somewhere, may need them. But I am afraid there is going to be some major landfill clogging soon.

I'll try to salvage what I can, but I think there may be some heretofore unsuspected psychic pain on my part if I continue looking at the pink bejeweled pencil cup much longer.