When I was eight, Ramona Quimby felt like my closest companion. Regardless of what challenges I faced at school, I knew I could always rely on her for comfort, making sure I never felt lonely. Growing up in a family that moved frequently, Ramona became my source of joy, laughter, and support while I navigated new classrooms filled with unfamiliar faces. I envisioned her home on Klickitat Street filled with cozy, mismatched furniture, braided rugs, and that unmistakable aroma of chicken noodle soup. The Quimby family’s warmth always made me feel welcome, and I cherished every moment spent in their imaginative world.
I was captivated by the adventures of Ramona and her older sister, Beezus. Ramona’s curious and playful nature often led her into amusing predicaments that reminded me of my own childhood antics. As the eldest sibling with two brothers, I found myself fascinated by Ramona’s experiences as a spirited little sister with a pixie haircut. My love for the Quimbys endures, and I still smile at the sight of Beverly Cleary’s books in bookstores, grateful for the enchanting universe she created.
When my daughter was born in September 2005, she occupied a special place in my heart that I hadn’t realized was vacant. While it’s often frowned upon for mothers to express a preference for a child’s gender, I’ll admit it: when the ultrasound technician revealed we were having a girl, my heart soared. In preparation for her arrival, I even purchased a set of Ramona books to share with her when she was ready.
As the years passed, I realized I was nurturing my very own Ramona. My daughter was small and spirited, sporting a chin-length pixie cut as a toddler so her playful face wouldn’t get lost in long hair. She expressed her opinions boldly from a young age and developed a unique sense of style, often pairing rain boots with dresses and wearing sunglasses on rainy days. More often than not, her face was smeared with dirt from a day of play, her party dress stained after a hard-fought battle in the yard.
She frequently mispronounced words, could out-argue anyone, and had a vivid imagination that could rival Walt Disney. She spun elaborate tales with her stuffed animals and devised “games” to play outside, reminiscent of Ramona and Howie’s “Brick Factory” adventure. Just like Ramona, she had her worries, often imagining alarming scenarios. I remember how Ramona dreaded the hole in the wall of her house; similarly, our daughter invented reasons to avoid the basement.
One afternoon, when she was three and supposed to be napping, I discovered her in the bathroom, enthusiastically squeezing toothpaste all over the walls. With her cheeky heart-shaped face, she declared that “the toothpaste made her do it.” I couldn’t help but chuckle, recalling how Mrs. Quimby had found Ramona in a similar predicament. (That is, until I had to tackle the sticky mess myself—unfortunately, I lack Mrs. Quimby’s legendary patience.)
I was indeed raising my own Ramona, and I cherished every moment. My daughter has brought countless joyful experiences into my life, and I feel incredibly lucky to witness her journey as a real-life Ramona. She’s adventurous and free-spirited, and it fills me with happiness to watch her dash across the yard in a cape, sunglasses perched on her nose while she chases her older brother.
Now that she’s 10, I get to share Ramona’s world with her, and I’m thrilled to see her develop a love for Klickitat Street. She reads the books with the same wonder that I once did. I couldn’t help but laugh when she reminded me to double-check that I had turned on the crockpot before we left for school, worried that we might have “The Big Fight” like the Quimbys did after Mrs. Quimby forgot. I assured her that if I had indeed forgotten, she would have ended up with a delicious hamburger, just like Ramona.
As a parent, it’s natural to worry about connecting with your children, especially as they approach their tween years. But Ramona and her world have become a bridge for my daughter and me, a shared space for exploration and connection. Often, when she feels down or upset, she seeks solace in Ramona’s stories, or she gleefully exclaims, “Ramona did that too!” when she encounters relatable situations. With a new puppy arriving this summer, she’s already decided on the perfect name: Picky Picky.
Through the pages of Ramona Quimby’s adventures, I’m reminded to embrace my own spunkiness even 30 years later. Watching my daughter form a bond with Ramona as her best friend fills me with joy. After all, that’s what best friends do.
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In summary, raising my daughter feels like nurturing my own version of Ramona Quimby, filled with laughter, creativity, and a few delightful messes along the way.