Beware the tutu-wearing tot

Each week I get to spend an evening with one of my best friends. We always look forward to our time together. Granted, it is time spent at our daughters’ dance class followed by a stop for dinner and ice cream, but like my friend said, “Ice cream is a close second to wine.”

This week, I had to drag my sons with us to the Princess’ dance class. They were thrilled. But, if Princess has to sit through Cub Scout meetings, then the boys can handle the occasional evening with little girls twirling in tutus.

And, like me, they will do anything for ice cream.

When dance class concluded, I ended up with my children along with my friend’s precocious kindergartner in my car.

I was not prepared for what would ensue. Who knew elementary age kids could discuss the same topics as college students?

Once the seating arrangement were secured (“Ew! I don’t want to sit where there are boy cooties!”), the conversation while driving became quite intriguing, or should I say, entertaining.

Conversation topics ranged from cremation (yes, you read that correctly), to cheerleading, name-calling and match-making.

My father, who refused to let me have a horse arena in the yard when I was a kid, spray-painted football field lines in his yard for his grandsons.

And, apparently, we will now officially have cheerleaders.

“I was made for gymnastics and cheerleading … and talking about strange things,” said our little friend.

“I’m a girly-girl, but I’m kind of weird, too.”

She later informed my 8-year-old son that they were made for each other and he would be her boyfriend. My son, who had just minutes before been accused of “acting like you don’t know me!” at school, objected, as most little boys do.

“Yes, you will,” she said. “I forced Logan into being my boyfriend.”

Things digressed from there into name-calling, screeching and determining who was oldest and thus, “The Boss.”

Though my cheeks hurt from laughing (and I was really glad I passed on the 20-ounce fountain drink before dance class), I was never more ready for a cookie-dough cyclone with chocolate ice cream.

And, I’m pretty sure that next week, it is my friend’s turn to taxi the 9-and-under crowd to the post-dance class festivities.

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