I'm the kind of person who skips to the conversation when reading a book.
“I’m just a dumb little kid,” Hannah has told me on occasion. It’s hard being the youngest of eight children.
Yesterday was one of those days. “I’m just a dumb little kid,” she said, as her father, Elliot, Finley, and Grace all got ready to go see The Hobbit. The fact that the movie is PG-13 was key in our decision-making process as to who can go. I am usually hard-core enough that I wouldn’t have even allowed Grace to see it, but she’s a week away from 13 and has read the book.
“They get to do all the fun stuff,” Hannah said, as they drove away.
“We can find something fun to do here,” I proposed. She gave me a “yeah, right, Mom” look, because there really isn’t a lot to do in a rural town in upstate New York on a bitterly cold day in winter.
She moped (ever so briefly) and then asked, “Do you think Netflix has The Brady Bunch?”
After some checking, we found that, while they don’t have any old seasons of The Brady Bunch, they do have some early seasons of Leave It to Beaver. Hannah had never seen any episodes of that show, so we started at the very beginning: Season 1, Episode 1.
Beaver’s main source of cuteness lies in saying funny things that are either grammatically incorrect, a la Junie B. Jones, or, the wrong choice of word, a la Ziva David. I know, I know, both of them came after Leave It to Beaver, but still, that’s what it reminded me of.
There was a scene in which June Cleaver, coifed and composed, was standing at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in a beautiful white overcoat, pearls, earrings, and high heels, holding two lunch boxes, one for Wally and one for Beaver. Wally vaulted down the stairs and over the railing, kissed his mother and grabbed his lunch box, then headed out the door for school. Beaver clomped down the stairs, took the proferred lunch box, kissed his mother and also headed out the door. As soon as the boys left, June pulled out a compact to powder her nose and to make sure every hair was still in place.
Hannah looked at me and said, “That’s just like you, Mom.”
I looked down at the little twinkle in her eye and the smile playing at her mouth. I live in hooded sweatshirts and Carhartt jeans. I don’t even own an overcoat and my hair is anything but coifed. The cliche of the June Cleaver housewife was not lost on my 9 year old.
I don’t think she’s such a dumb little kid after all.