Klowns in my Koffee

Daily Kup (My Life as a Confused Parent)
Princess Potatohead is nearly six years old and has just had her heart broken. She was enamored of an "older man" -- a fourth grader -- named Cole. I didn't realize how doggedly serious she was until she turned down the chance to go to a Girl Scout Leader meeting with me (where the attraction is snacks) to tag along with her father to a Cub Scout pack meeting (where they do not have snacks but they do have Cole).

Snacks have heretofore been the one motivator that could be counted upon to get her attention, banish any funk, and, in general, be that magic carrot that has always worked. Ah, good times.

I've seen Cole and he's actually a pretty cute little boy as nine-year-olds go. Very Alpha male. BMOP (Big Man on Playground). Right side of the tracks and all that.

Through sobs this evening, we learned that she had inveigled the probably very perplexed Cole to commit to meet her on the playground at recess tomorrow. This in itself was a feat of negotiation worthy of a hammer-wielding ex-president since kindergartners are sequestered in the "upper playground" while the big kids rule the hallowed lower playground with the skating rink.

Using a very efficient elementary school form of Twitter, Princess Potatohead could not resist telling a few dozen of her pals about her upcoming "date."

The grapevine quickly stretched tendrils to Cole, who was apparently surprised to find that he was "dating" anyone, let alone a kindergartner.

On the dreaded schoolbus, Cole loudly pronounced Princess Potatohead to be "cuckoo" complete with the rotating hand motion around the temple. Attila the Son, ever the jovial bearer of bad news, left his assigned seat to repeat this loudly to his sister in case she hadn't heard it clearly enough.

People say 'sobbed inconsolably' with the two words stuck together tighter than Donald Trump and whatever that is on his head. Like 'veritable plethora.' You hardly ever hear of a plethora that isn't veritable. Or a sob that's successfully consolable.

Princess Potatohead sobbed for about four hours and this is not an exaggeration. She slowed down both out of exhaustion and because Mr. T. told her the story of his failed engagement. We were saving that story for high school and are now out of good material on heartbreak.

Whether you are five or fifty, you don't want to hear the only answer that seems to work: Time heals all wounds. And, if you wait long enough for the jerks to get theirs, time wounds all heels.