Drama Daddy: The Scrip for Cooties

My daughter Clare is getting to know some of the neighborhood kids better. There’s “Boy across the street,” who’s also five, and there’s “Girl next door,” who’s six. But unfortunately for Boy, the girls have just discovered the existence of “cooties.”

When Clare’s Mom and I were both working full-time, Clare didn’t spend much awake time at home. She’d leave with me in the morning to go to daycare, and I’d pick her up after work—sometimes we’d even have to go back to the theater. Because Clare’s Mom works further away, her days were—and still are—even longer.

Since I’ve been home, Clare has afternoons after Kindergarten at home to play. And since it’s gotten warm, play means going outside. Clare has a bicycle and a scooter, and so does “Boy across the street.” Boy, who isn’t in Kindergarten yet, has been outside almost every afternoon. One day when both Clare and Boy were riding bikes or scooters on the dead-end street we live on (with me and Boy’s mother keeping watch), they struck up a conversation.

Boy said, “I can go faster than you.”

He could, literally, ride circles around Clare, who still has training wheels on her bike and is finding her balance on the scooter.

“But my bike is pink,” answered Clare.

From that, a friendship was born. Boy watches for Clare to come home from Kindergarten, gets on his bike or scooter, and waits for Clare to do the same so they can ride around looking at each other.

Enter Girl next door. At six, she’s already privy to the social intricacies of the first grade. With a full year of grade school nearly behind her, she is well schooled in who can play with whom and why. She also happened to be outside one afternoon when Boy wasn’t, and, despite the difference that one year can make between five and six year olds, Clare and Girl have also become friends. Now, when Girl gets home from school, she comes looking for Clare so they can ride bikes, play Barbies, and talk about The Little Mermaid like Boy never did.

Earlier this week, when Clare and Girl were in Girl’s front yard playing, Boy came outside and yelled over to them.

“Hi,” he called.

No answer.

“Hi,” he called louder.

Ignorance again.

“HIIIIIIII!” he screamed.

“Stop saying that,” Girl yelled back. “We’re playing girl things.”

“Yeah, we’re playing girl things,” Clare repeated.

Dejected, Boy went back inside.

I had been working in the lawn and witnessed the whole incident. Although I know that this Boy—who plays basketball, trucks, Spider-Man, and runs into walls—is unlikely to want to play Barbies or talk about The Little Mermaid, I still felt bad for him for being excluded. I went to get Clare, brought her over to Boy’s house, and made her apologize for ignoring him and then being rude. Then I let her go back to play with Girl, whose mother I spoke with later.

I also gave Boy a little unsolicited advice. “Don’t let ‘em bother you,” I said. “They’re girls.” But at five, ten, twenty or forty, that’s easier said than done.

I’m going to try to get the three of them to play together some day. I’m sure they’ll have something in common. It’ll be interesting to watch how the dynamic plays out. Very different, I’m sure, than it will in about eight or nine years. Until then, we’ll just keep the scrip for cooties on hand.