Noted above are all the girl child’s imaginary friends who live, according to her, “in thin air.”   So many friends! And so many  that are new to me!  Such as, all but two: Mary and Sally. Yeah, so they’re spelled phonetically (better than Phoenicianly! that would be impossible!). If you peer closely you will find Sally and Mary on the second line. More or less.

New to me, also, were their last names! Who knew they had last names? Not me!

“What’s Mary’s last name there, Buttercup?”

“Hockey. She’s Mary Hockey.”

“Right. And Sally? Is her last name Doorknob?”

“No. Her last name is Knob. Her middle name is Door.  Sally. Door. Knob.”

“Check.”

[Keeping up the stream of non-prosey posts in the last, heady,  pre-K, dog days of summer.]

Guess who’s gunnin’ to be one among that rare, goth set of Kindergartners with bags under her eyes, thanks to staying up late reading?

Okay, well, proto-crypto-pseudo-quasi-reading. Air-quotes reading. The age-appropriate stuff, she breezes through. The within spitting distance of age-appropriate, the coupla years off stuff, she muscles through with support. Other stuff, like this compilation of fairy tales for late-elementary school readers, she engages in something more like a hybrid of Evelyn Wood/free-association.

Before I asked to take her picture — I pretty much never interrupt the nighttime routine with that kind of malarkey, and though the children are exquisite while asleep, photography feels more nakedly soul-stealing at a moment like that — I said, “This is the first time you’re reading in bed with a flashlight, isn’t it Buttercup?”

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Not talkin’ Wal-Mart.

Both these characters were named “Daisy,” by the way, and they had a lengthy dispute about which one was the real Daisy.

The day before this box was not a puppet theater, but the blessed vessel holding the girlie’s first actual mattress. Before that, she slept on a skimpy Ikea foam jobbie, which did the trick when she was about as light as the cat. But ever since she’s entered the weight range of our dear departed doggie (a lab mix mutt), something a little more substantial has been in order. We knew it was time to purchase an actual mattress when she began to pad into our room in the middle of the night and crawl into our bed, complaining of the lumps in her bed. (Mama’s theater co. is doing “Once Upon a Mattress” this winter, by the way, and not a moment too soon. )

At the mattress shop, the girlie was so elated she kissed the box. Several different times. She also kissed the mattress as we unfurled it onto her bedframe. Then she arranged all 30-40 of her stuffed animals all around its perimeter, a Maginot line of polyester and cotton.

Post Script: The girlie slept the whole night through, like a log. And so, thank the dieties, did we.

What is the only thing that is big enough to follow a peak experience like graduating from preschool?  Yep. An ice cream sundae with sprinkles. [Detail here.]

After just a bite or two, she said, “This is the best ice cream I’ve ever had in my whole life. Everyone who sees this” — and I must note at this point, the parlor is utterly empty except for  me, the beloved, my dad, the proprietor, and her — “is going to want sprinkles just like this.” 

The whole day was filled with wonderment more or less on this scale. At the end of it, she was running back and forth in our small place, singing a moment-by-moment  improvised song about how she was better than fairies, better than princesses, she could do anything. Her lyrics. Which I take to mean: she felt pretty much on top of the world.  

If you’re reading this, preschool director and staff (and you know who you are): Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.  A hundred times over. Last year, she wouldn’t stand up in the little line and sing with everyone else, even though she had every lyric and hand gesture memorized probably by the second or third repetition. This year, she beamed, and sang out, and beamed some more.  Which is pretty much what we’re all working towards. 

I will count us quite lucky if we witness some proximity of this post-pre-school joy, annually, for the next thirteen years. A gal can hope. Now pass the sprinkles.