Joshua's friends have been coming over to play. I use the term "friends" lightly, since some of the neighboorhood kids are a far cry from who I imagined Joshua would bring over. Not the nice little boy from across the street, necessarily. He's such a polite little thing whose only downfall is the googly-eye glasses he has to wear. And not the small sweet lispy girl from next door, either. She can come over anytime and tell me that she likes my "houth." Namely, I guess, is the little girl from the end of the block. We'll call her "Ricky." Well, okay, that's actually her name. I figure it's okay since only 4 or 5 people read these posts anyway. What, oh what, do I do with Ricky?She's the kid who has to be in charge, at all costs. She's the one that weasels her way into your house when you open the door, no matter how you try to block the entrance with your body. She's the one who comes over and uses words to which your sweet little boy has not yet been introduced, and is not, as a matter of fact, allowed to use. She'd eat the apples right out of your basket of fruit without asking, then leave the core lying on the living room floor. If, of course, she were even allowed into your house. Which, by the way, she is not. See the picture up there? She's the one that you have to keep reminding to pull up her pants, since you can actually see butt-crack every time she bends down.
Yikes. What a dilemna. Why, I lament, has Ricky picked our house to bestow her presence upon? Do the other parents on the block have the same problem? Regardless of whether or not they do, we have to find a way to be kind and diplomatic while still guarding our precious and naive little boy for as long as we can. And I guess in the meantime, we'll keep reminding Ricky that she's not actually allowed to sneak into our backyard without us there, and she really only has to ring the doorbell once for me to hear it, and when I say that Joshua can play in "a little while" she doesn't have to sit at the door and stare into our house until the elusive "little while" comes to be. Oh, don't worry. I'll do it all with a smile on my face and kindness in my voice, since she truly is somebody's little girl, somebody's baby, even if she is currently the thorn in my side.
Brady is the boy across the street. He's a middle child, and six years old. Why, you wonder, would he want to play with an almost-three-year-old? I ask myself the same question, and can only figure that Joshua is the only other boy on the block that will play with him. Whatever the case may be, I've often thought that he's the best first friend that Joshua could have. I mean really, who else would let you bring them your pants and underwear, insisting on help from nobody else to put them on you, even when your very own mother has offered this same service? And who else would say nothing (though obviously disgusted) when you strip off all of your clothes, pee in the grass, then come to the sandbox naked? What a great friend, I think.
Kayla is the sweet girl in the pink, with the Barbie umbrella. Friend to Joshua? Not really, but she's along for the ride, anyway. She's more a casual acquaintance right now, but might eventually turn out to be the pretty girl next door that Joshua pines over in his teen years. I've entertained the thought in a weird and somewhat miserable "my boy is growing up faster than I ever thought he would" kind of way.
The long and short of it all? Joshua now shoots the basketball from, say, 4 feet away and says "long range, man." He rides his scooter through the living room and tells me he's "just ridin' around." He runs around the driveway, shouting with glee, "my friends are here, my friends are here!" And lastly, best and worst of all, he stands in the middle of the driveway, yelling "RICKY" over and over, until she shows up to play.
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