there she stands, towering over him, notebook and pencil in hand, just waiting to write down every offense, every word he says. this she documents so she can have a record later, just in case.
adorned in jewels, elastic blue crown atop her head to keep her eyes free to roam, keeping track of his every move, she is poised, arms crossed, toe pointed, with a scowl on her face. thinking. scheming.
there is a line; mom says it can't be crossed. too close to the street. she dares him to inch closer to it. closer, closer, just a bit more, that's it. pencil hits paper; notes are made.
there is a bubble wand, just brimming with opportunity for disaster. she holds it out, unscrews the top just enough--then hands it to him, which he takes, like a thankful puppy. and then the soap, spilling, spilling, over the edge, onto the porch.
more scribbles. more notes.
she eyes the concrete porch steps. coated with yellow pollen. all but deadly to him. like his kryptonite. she stops. turns. says, "i bet you can't roll down these steps."
and he, always eager to please, to meet her every challenge, answers, "oh yes i can."
and this is when i realize that girls are indeed smarter than boys.