It is National Delurking Week, as the Birthday Girl just pointed out.

So delurk, would you? What do you want from me? More recipes? Fewer? More sex talk? Less? More stories about children stabbing themselves? More tragic stories about my past?

More pictures? Dammit, I hate putting up photos. I mean, it’s basic enough, but I just have a mental block about it. That and geometry.

Here’s a funny story about the Crier and her Arch Nemesis:

She’s in second grade now, still in my daughter’s class. She doesn’t cry quite as much this year — just once or twice a day. Now, she spars. “She’s just scrappin’!” as Paul Newman said in that cinematic delight, Slapshot. I would like to get all the second-graders playing hockey, seriously. Burn off some of that crazy eight-year-old energy.

The Crier especially likes to spar with… let’s call him Harry. Cuz he loves Harry Potter. They’re across the room from each other, but the energy is so strong, it’s like they’re fused at the hip.

“She was mimicking you! The whole time you were talking!” Harry tells the teacher.

“Well, isn’t she just a little comedian,” the teacher says. (This teacher — I love this teacher. He knows how to roll with it. The kids have complete respect for him, and anything he’s teaching — reading, math, science, life lessons — they follow along. But this class — they like to talk. Argue. Play kickball. Commando-crawl across the classroom floor. They’re cute, but a handful. He does a tremendous job with them.)

“He was making faces at me!” the Crier calls out, in the middle of a lesson. “He was! He still is! MAKE HIM STOP!”

Dear Lord, please help us. They’re disrupting the class daily, these two, and honestly, it’s like watching a boxing match. Who’s gonna win this round? Yesterday it got to Harry so bad, he politely asked the teacher, “May I speak with you out in the hall? Alone?”

This broke my heart. The teacher was in the middle of a lesson, so I asked him, “Would I do?” We sat out in the hall and talked for a long time. I told him, “Baby, for real. You two might as well get married, because you fight like an old married couple! What are you going to do, get engaged now or later?”

He thought this was quite funny.

“She is a little cute,” he admitted. (He’s a little cute, too. They’re both adorable.)

Then we made a list: Ways he and she are alike; ways they are different; the stresses of being in a large class (28 kids, one teacher, no aide, few parent volunteers). We talked about ways to stay focused and how to not let upheavals distract you. They’re both little smartys — good at math, reading, art, socializing. And gifted at hurling insults, as well! What more could you ask for? Argh.

It’s hard being a not-smart kid in a large class (how can you keep up? Is anyone noticing you’ve only written down two of the ten words on the board? What if the teacher calls on you? Don’t raise your hand, don’t raise your hand, duck.) I think it’s pretty hard being a smart kid in a large class, too. The type of kid I mean (and this is the category Wacky Girl falls into) is the type who doesn’t act out (much), who tries to figure things out alone, because they see the teacher is busy, who helps other kids when they have questions — sometimes to the point of not doing their own work. These kids internalize a lot, then come home stressed and tired.

So. We’ve talked it out, and Harry asks me, “Know what I really want to do to her?”

Me: “Are you sure you want to tell me?” (Because I’m thinking he wants to put her in a chokehold or tear up her Bratz pee-chee and all her drawings of kittens, or whatever the second-grade equivalent is of “I will get you for this, my pretty! And your little dog, too!”)

He says: “Interview her.”

This is about the best idea I’d heard all year. I asked the teacher for permission, kept the two of them in for half of recess, and they interviewed each other about where they were born, what bugs them, what they like to do for fun. The teacher said maybe they can do a presentation for the class. (They’re both hams. They would love this.) And they made a list: Ways we are different, ways we are the same.

I know, I’m a genius. Just kidding, I’m not. But they are.