Wisdom and Intuition

It was her first sleep-over invitation, forcing us to confront the line we had drawn some time ago: Absolutely No Sleep-overs Until You Are Eight Years Old. By all accounting, she is seven. Okay, seven and a half, but Still. She is Not Eight.

Yes, the invitation came. A birthday party sleep-over with a very good friend, a friend she only just made this summer but whom she Absolutely Adores. And the friend was turning eight, so surely that should count for something.

"Can't I go, please? Can't I please go? You said I could have a sleep-over when I was seven." (Very Solemn Gaze as Response). "Okay, eight. But I'm almost eight. Can't I go? Please?"

We caved, because we are like that. As much as we would like for intuition and wisdom to guide us, we second-guess that intuition and wisdom All The Time. Why was it we said she must be eight years old for these things? And was it all that important? And isn't this child-- this birthday child who has invited her-- also important? And, oh, how Emma wants to go!

She packed her bag with zeal, even managing to squeeze her pillow into the thing. Pajamas, clean clothes, toothbrush. She was set. She headed out the door with the birthday girl and her mother and only looked back because I called out one last time, "Bye!"

In the end, we were very happy for her to get to go.

Hours later, Bill and I sit on the patio of a favorite restaurant. The boys are with a baby-sitter, Emma is at her sleep-over. We have seen The Dark Knight; we have eaten our appetizers. We are in no hurry for our dinner but are enjoying the night air and the wine and some long-desired, uninterrupted conversation.

The cell phone rings. It is the birthday girl's mother.

Emma has forgotten her bunny. Yes, her sweet pink bunny, the one with her name embroidered near the hem, the one whose ears are worn, whose satin is frayed, whose bluishness at the top of the head comes from sitting in Something Staining a long time ago. She has left it at home and wants that we should bring it to her.

There are All Sorts of Things wrong with this. We are on a date. We are having a good time. We haven't had our dinner and we want to. The bunny is at home. And the girl who is supposed to be enjoying her first sleep-over is sleeping over at a house every bit of a half hour away. We are not going to be taking the bunny to her. No.

And yet.

I can imagine the quaver she feels inside. My confident one, my brave girl who hates to cry and would die before she let it happen. She isn't the sort to bail on a night like this. She will sleep over. But she had Always Intended to be sleeping over With Her Bunny.

Now Emma is on the phone, and Bill hands the phone to me."You left bunny?" I say to her.

"Uh-huh," she says, and her voice is not very strong.

"But I thought you went back upstairs to get her?"

"I did, but then I forgot to get her." Funny the things a mother can hear in her daughter's voice.

"Oh," I say, and "well," I say, and "you were just so excited about the party, weren't you? Of course you forgot bunny. It was kind of easy to do."

"Uh-huh," she says again.

Breezy, is what I am. Calm. Casual. This is not a problem. Not a problem at all.

"Well, don't you worry about bunny," I say. "Bunny will understand. She will be just fine. When I get home, I will go and find her and I will bring her to my bed, and she can sleep with Daddy and me. So you can enjoy the sleep-over and you don't need to worry about her at all. And tomorrow, when you get home, she will be waiting for you."

This sounded very good to Emma Grace. It was, in fact, all she needed to hear. So she went on and enjoyed the sleep-over and got very little sleep, just as one is supposed to do at these things.

And Bunny slept in our room, as promised, and when Emma arrived home the next day, she went in search of her, and found her, as she expected, on her mommy and daddy's bed. I don't think she asked, but I would have told her: bunny slept Just Fine too.