My four year old cousin impatiently tapped one fashionably wedge-sandaled foot on the worn boards of the swing-set platform. She sighed and glanced at her huge plastic Dora the Explorer wristwatch that she couldn’t decipher. “Es la una.” Whatever that meant, but, eh, it was Dora. She was bilingual and had a monkey. If anyone knew what time it was, Dora did.
She leaned on the railing, wrinkling her nose distastefully at the present some thoughtless bird had left for her on the wooden board, being careful not to get her pink Disney Princess t-shirt anywhere remotely near it.
She was about to whip around indignantly, long blonde braid flying, and march back into the house declaring her unbridled hatred for all of mankind when he appeared.His name was Sammy. And if he stood at his bedroom window while she was in her playhouse, they could talk over the backyard fence.During one of these rendezvous, Sammy puffed out his chest importantly. “I’m six!” he proudly informed her.
My cousin grinned back at him sweetly. “I’m five!”When I was four years old, I didn’t lie about my age. The Sisters of Mercy at my school usually frowned upon such things. So, instead, I took the less forthright route and planned out the entire future of the object of my affection, including the names and genders of our countless and, of course, ridiculously good-looking offspring.
His name was Philip. And if we went to a certain restaurant at a certain time on Sunday mornings, he might be there with his parents too.
I don’t remember knowing his last name, but he didn’t need one, just like all the other great figures within the narrow range of my cognitive scope: Barbie. Big Bird. Uncle Jesse.
His name was Philip. And he was scared shitless of me.
Philip was the most handsomest creature I had ever seen wandering the halls of Hobbit House, dragging his disgustingly endearing security blanket behind him. I sat next to him at story time, I wrote him love notes, I even offered him part of my snack. All while he stared at me like I had just asked him to use his blankie to clean up after that one kid who always wet himself.
But I didn’t care.Philip and I were going to get married and have lots of babies and that was that.
I don’t remember why I started liking him or why I stopped, but eventually I moved on to the freckly kindergartener whose hair could not be coerced to do anything except stick straight up in the air. Then to the kid across the street who everyone assumed would marry me. To the gay guy…
Although I remember the others much more vividly, Philip was the only one whose hypothetical children I ever imagined.
I have no doubt that Sammy is merely the first in my little cousin’s inevitably long list of inexplicable crushes. She’ll soon move on to the next boy, leaving Sammy alone and confused in her pink frilly wake.I just hope she knows his last name.
