Isobel: "Daddy look what I got!"
Daddy: "What have you got?"
Isobel: "A book from the library."
Daddy: "Oh yeah?"
Isobel: "It's called Werewolf attack, isn't it cool?"
Daddy: "It is. I can't help but notice you've been getting some interesting books out of the library. Monsters and werewolves and natural disasters."
Isobel: "Yep."
Daddy: So...?"
Isobel: "That's all that I want to read about now, tears and death and fire."
Nearly May and the warm weather seems as though it is finally here to stay and Izzy has been soaking it up from the second the snow began to melt. She has also been playing with Mrs. Narrator's roller derby whistle. The minions now have audible clues (beyond Isobel screaming at them) to be absolutely certain her will is obeyed.
I was eavesdropping on her as she was out playing tonight. You can't make this stuff up.
"Phweep!" went the whistle. "You there!" she bellowed at a minion. "You! What are you doing?"
She waited for a response that she clearly did not like.
"Phweep!" went the whistle. "Nope, nope. Not like that at all. That's six laps!"
"Phweep!" went the whistle.
At this point, I could picture the minions cringing as that damn whistle blew and blew ...and blew. I used to think that the minions looked kind of like the little yellow guys from Despicable me and I confess that it was after seeing this movie that I started calling her imaginary friends that. It seemed appropriate then and more so now. Now however, I picture them as something more akin to turn of the century Russian peasants under the yoke of her oppression."Phweep!" went the whistle." Dang it Carl!"
Wait, what?!?! a name? The minions had never had a name before, they were always the faceless nameless masses. This could be good. (potentially, I may have misheard what she said but I am going to stick with Carl)
"Phweep!" went the whistle. "Six laps. No, no there's no use...NO! SIX...LAPS!"
There was silence for an unnatural amount of time. I looked out and saw she was down on one knee talking to the downed minion. (Who the worse? The kid who has imaginary underlings or the father that refers to them as though they were real entities?)
"Are you OK?" she asked. "You went down hard. OK? Good. That was funny. I don't care who you are, that was funny."
It could be worse, she could have no imagination at all...
Mrs. Narrator was off to the wilds of Michigan this past weekend and Izzy was supposed to have a movie type play date. She was unceremoniously stood up and so Mrs. Narrator suggested that perhaps I could take her. I jumped at the chance. Off to see the wizard we went.
Oz the Great and Powerful was neither. I am not a huge fan of James Franco, just saying. It's not going to chase any Oscars anytime soon but Isobel loved it. The problem with movies like that (where you are familiar with the story and the general outcome) is there is never enough witch time on screen.
"Daddy, when is the witch coming?"
"Soon, baby."
But it's never soon enough.
"Holy crap, that guy just tripped and dumped all of his popcorn on the stairs." I'd like to say that she whispered this but that wouldn't quite be the honest truth. I'm certain the guy was embarrassed already but that's the beauty of being a kid, brutal honesty without reproach.
Finally the witch was about to arrive.
"Daddy why are her tears burning her face?"
I have to admit I was stymied by that one.
"Um...not sure. Maybe the badness in her heart?" I bluffed.
"No, that's me." she said.
Soon it was green skin and pointy hats and cackling laughter and one happy little girl on the way out of the theatre."Did you like the movie?" I asked her.
"Yep!" she beamed.
"Were you scared?" I asked again.
"Phfft, no!" she said.
"No?"
"No way, that witch wasn't so scary. I would have shot fireballs at everybody, even the munchkins and then burnt them all up. Who would be there to stop me then? Nobody."
I mentioned to Izzy that for many years when I was a kid, I was afraid of the Wicked Witch of the West.
"Really?" she asked in an almost mocking tone.
"Yep." I said.
I am not afraid of the Wicked Witch of the West anymore...I may just be afraid of the seven year old dictator of the backyard, though...even if she doesn't have a pointy hat.
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