March 22, 2019
By Ekta R. Garg
Enjoy these Spurts from the last couple of weeks, readers!
The funny instances of Starbucks baristas misspelling and mispronouncing names have been well documented on social media. When Twelve and her classmates went on a field trip recently, they had some free time after lunch and went into Starbucks. Twelve and her friends thought it would be fun to give the baristas fake names, and she gave the name “Sunny.”
“They spelled it with a Y instead of an I, but that’s okay,” she told us afterward in describing the encounter.
“It was a fake name!” I exclaimed. “What does it matter how they spell it?”
She looked at me in mock horror. “It matters!”
I just shook my head.
“I bet at Starbucks they ask people to spell stuff, and if they get it right, Starbucks is like, ‘Um, no,’” she replied. “I could work at Starbucks, but my spelling is too good.”
As a former spelling bee champ, I have to say that I don’t think spelling well is ever a bad thing.
Every summer the kids attend a variety of half-day camps. They’ve done everything from a Harry Potter-themed camp to one that allows them to use the public transportation in our town to explore our little city. The whole purpose of enrolling the kids in these activities is to expose them to different ideas and topics, help them meet new friends, and keep them out of one another’s hair.
The fact that they stay out of my hair for half a day is just a perk.
Of course, all this sounds great in theory. What it amounts to in reality is me negotiating what camps the kids should and can do every summer. They enjoy the activities their school offers and often insist they just want to stick with school stuff. We’re fortunate to live in a town that offers a myriad of options. With the university here, the choices for older kids get really interesting. Then there’s other schools, the YMCA, and even the park district.
This year, we wanted the kids to try something in addition to a school camp; of course, a discussion ensued on this issue.
My husband and I spent about 15 minutes talking to the girls about the value and virtue of trying new things. We reminded them that they were privileged to have all these options; neither of us had ever gotten to explore in this way. They could make new friends and stretch their current skills.
When we all came to an agreement about what camps they would do, Twelve leaned toward me.
“That was a looong talk,” she said.
“Oh, sweetie, guess what?” I said. “They only get longer as you get older.”
She inhaled long and deep; maybe the threat of long talks will be enough to keep her from doing stuff that would require them in the future.
Every year for Valentine’s Day, I get the girls a little gift. I started doing this several years ago in an active bid to make the day special for them. I also thought it would be nice for us to share the day; in a few years, they’ll be out of the house but I want them to have a non-birthday/non-Christmas holiday to anticipate with delight.
This year, since both girls needed new bathrobes, I bought them each one. I was quite proud of the fact that I found both of them on clearance and that Twelve’s came in a plushy lavender color (and purple is her favorite color, so double win there.) Ten’s was red, a leftover from the Christmas season, so it has white stars on it.
It also has a hood with bear ears.
Ever since receiving the bathrobe, she’s “transformed” into a bear. Or some human-animal hybrid version. So our bear doesn’t hibernate, but she does speak in some weird gibberish that’s supposed to be bear language.
It doesn’t help that Twelve has gotten into the act wholeheartedly. She’s begun addressing Ten exclusively as Bear. Many of the silly little impromptu games they create involve Bear doing something. Twelve will even climb up the stairs halfway and pat her legs, the same way you’d do for a pet.
“Come on, Bear!” she calls to Ten. “Come on!”
Ten then proceeds to climb up the stairs bear-style: on all fours.
Sometimes, though, Twelve’s tween self comes through; this happened last week when she accused me of being responsible for “creating” the bear.
“It’s all your fault,” she said. “You bought her the bear suit.”
“No, I bought her a bathrobe,” I said. “You encouraged her by all the stuff you do. You’ve practically turned into her bear trainer!”
Twelve shook her head. “Nope. You bought the bear suit. It’s your fault.”
But, really, can it be my fault after all?
Twelve’s theater group has been working hard on a Beatles medley that will soon go “on tour” around our town. In addition to the medley, though, they’re also going to play some theater games for the entertainment of the audience. Because of the need to think on their feet, the theater director suggested the kids come and take part in a family-friendly improv night in their little theater. They go on right before a small improv group that graciously gave up their earlier start time so the kids could get some more improv practice in. At the end of their improv sessions, the adult improv actors get on stage and do a few fun games with the kids.
By the time their semester ends, the kids will have had four opportunities to work with the adult improv actors. Because of her dance commitments, Twelve couldn’t attend the first two improv nights. Last week, however, she finally got her chance.
We were thoroughly entertained by Twelve and the other child actors. Improv is a tough skill to master; it requires coming up with a response and then enacting it convincingly in performance mode, all within a matter of seconds. While all the kids we watched that night have done excellent jobs in the various plays and other rehearsed performances, it became obvious as their hour-long show progressed that some of the kids were much better at improv than others.
When we came home that night, I leaned in toward Twelve in conspiratorial fashion.
“Can I tell you a secret?” I said.
“What?” she asked as she pulled off her boots in the mudroom.
“I thought you were the best one on stage.”
She grinned at me. “You have to say that.”
“Well, maybe, but I also really believe it.”
She shook her head good-naturedly at my bias, but, hey, what can I say? I am biased. I’ve got a budding improv star right under my own roof.