Alternately titled: Riding in cars with girls…

At least twice a week, Tia and I are in the car alone headed to gymnastics. I’d like to say this is a fun, relaxing girl time, but the truth is…it’s exhausting.

Girls talk a lot. I mean, I know that I am a girl and I’m quite certain I talked a lot as a kid (in fact, I distinctly remember my mom asking me to be quiet on occasion because her ears hurt. Hmph…), but I really wasn’t prepared for the intensity of the chatting. Half the time I don’t even understand what she is saying. Take, for example, this most recent conversation (which I can only remember pieces of because I’m not kidding she talks without breathing…)

Tia: “Oh Mom, guess what…(every new sentence begins with this phrase)”

Me: “What?”

Tia: “Riley has an older sister and she got her ears pierced and she said that it hurted really bad and her sister cried and her sister is eleven…and she cried.”

Me: *open mouth to respond but there isn’t time so I close it again*

Tia: “Oh Mom, guess what…”

Me: *open mouth the respond but there isn’t time so I close it again*

Tia: “There’s this boy who is in my group and I think he likes me, but I don’t like him. I mean I do like him, but I only like him like…you know…like a boy. But not like a boyfriend. I don’t like anybody like a boyfriend, right mom?”

I don’t even attempt a response.

Tia: “I don’t know if I want to get my ears pierced. I mean, I kind of do want to get my ears pierced but I’m a little nervous. Does it hurt weally bad to get your ears pierced, Mom? Can I get my ears pierced, Mom?”

Me: *open mouth to respond but there isn’t time so I close it again*

Tia: “Oh Mom, guess what…my friend in my class said she wears a bwa (bra). She’s six! Six year olds don’t wear bwas, right Mom? Can a six year old wear a bwa? Do I need to wear a bwa, Mom?”

I would really like to respond to this, but there simply isn’t time.

Tia: “Oh Mom, guess what…when I play soccer, I think I might be the star player, ’cause I think I’m pretty good at soccer. But I don’t know if I should be a professional soccer player when I grow up or a professional gymnastics girl. Maybe I should be both, right Mom? And a veteranian. I want to be a vet, ‘kay Mom?”

I manage to nod.

Tia: “Oh Mom, guess what…sometimes when I go to school I play with just the boys on the playground, but not usually. Only sometimes. Mostly I just play with the girls. Mom I smell centipedes. Do you smell centipedes?”

I…I just…I don’t…huh? Oh wait. She stopped talking. This is the question she wants me to answer?

Tia: “Mom. Mom!”

Me: “What?!”

Tia: “Did you hear me?”

Me: “I…uh…yes?”

Tia: “Oh Mom, guess what…”

And on and on it goes until we arrive. And I think she only manages to use an eighth of her daily allotted words because it starts all over again on the way home. So if you see me out in public and I look lost in a daze, just know I’m trying to process it all.

And I’m trying to figure out what the heck centipedes smell like…