what you gonna do?

My first year at school I fell for the Bad Boy of the class. All of 6 years old.

Mark had big white blonde curls and very red lips. He would spend break times revving round the playground pretending to be a motorbike. (Not ride a motorbike mind, be a motorbike).
A Bad Boy Bike(r), that was my first love.

We would hold hands during story-time, sitting cross-legged side-by-side I'd drape my skirt over his knee to hide our entwined fingers.
Heady stuff.

Once, in an attempt to impress him, I told him the puzzle we were working on was made from our teacher's poo.
Another boy overheard and, motivated no doubt by unrequited love - mine, tortured me for weeks by threatening to tell Mrs Mitchell.
My first memory of romantic love forever linked with sore tummy angst and guilt.

Seems like Frieda might be following suit. She's not a little in love with the Bad Boy of her class. All of 3 years old.
Mich (the 'ch' pronounced with that gch sound Afrikaans and Dutch gets such a bad rap for) has sparkly mischievous eyes, an abiding passion for dinosaurs and loves to talk about poo.

He calls my star-struck daughter 'Frieda Force' (uh?), hugs her goodbye after school and shows her a booger on the end of his finger. She laughs a laugh I've never heard before and calls him a poop-head. He beams.

In the car on the way home she tells me that Mich sat on a caterpillar this morning. 'He squished it Mum,' she says, 'and I told him it left a bit of poo on his pants.'
She's quiet in the back.
Then, 'And he laughed.'
She radiates pride.

Bad boys, bad boys, what you gonna do ....