Husband Guy came home to find me digging a pit in our front yard. He recognized the little storm cloud over my head, so he knew what to ask:

“Who irked you now?”

“The mailman!” I said, tossing another shovelful of Jersey dirt. “He bent Beverly Cleary!”

Husband Guy arched one eyebrow like I can’t do without Scotch tape. “The mailman bent…?”

I tossed Husband Guy my creased Horn Book Magazine. “I finally got my ‘Happy 100^th Birthday, Beverly Cleary!’ issue and the mailman bent it!”

I dug faster. “So, I’m gonna catch him in this Pit of Ouchy Doom! You don’t do that to Beverly Cleary, creator of—”

“Ramona Geraldine Quimby, your Mischief Spirit Animal,” Husband Guy finished.

“Ramona Geraldine Quimby, my Mischief Spirit Animal!” I declared.

I blinked. “Have I mentioned this before?”

Husband Guy made himself comfy on the edge of my Pit of Ouchy Doom. “Go on,” he said. “Get it out of your system.”

“Ramona Geraldine Quimby,” I said, warming up my speech and my shovel. “Rider of indoor tricycles! Displayer of scabs! Signer of library books—"

“Mischief-we-do-not-approve-of-but-it-was-funny,” Husband Guy recited under his breath.

“Mischief we do not approve of but it was funny!” I continued.

“Ramona Geraldine Quimby! Dragger of imaginary lizards! Licker of other people’s lollipops—”

“That isn’t sanitary,” interrupted Husband Guy.

I paused to pick a worm out of my hair. “Mischief can be messy,” I said.

“I see,” said Husband Guy. “Carry on.”

“Ramona Geraldine Quimby!” I carried on, digging faster. “Chomper of apples! Planner of unauthorized parties! Slayer of birthday cakes!”

“Thank you for not doing that on my birthday,” Husband Guy said. “Again.”

“Restraint was difficult,” I admitted. “Where was I?”

“Ramona Geraldine Quimby,” Husband Guy prompted.

“Ramona Geraldine Quimby!” I cried, digging faster still. “Puller of boing-boing curls! Quitter of kindergarten! Scruncher of owls!”

“EW!” Husband Guy said.

“Scruncher of paper-bag owls,” I corrected. “You always forget that one.”

“And,” I said, soil and storylines flying, “Yeller of ‘GUTS!’ Wearer of burrs! Squeezer of toothpaste! Spiller of bluing! Smuggler of pajamas! Runner-away-er! Squeaker of shoes! Whacker of eggs! DESTROYER OF CEILINGS—”

The front door opened. “Shhh, Mom!” The Kid scolded. “The neighbors’ll think you’re weird! Again.”

Then she spied my Horn Book. “Beverly Cleary!” she said. “I call dibs!”

She plopped next to Husband Guy at the edge of my Pit of Ouchy Doom…

And folded the cover back.

Husband Guy shielded his eyes.

But I did not explode. “Ramona Geraldine Quimby,” I sighed. “My Mischief Spirit Animal… and role model Drop Everything And Read-er.”

“Sustained Silent Reader,” The Kid corrected, without looking up from her Sustained Silent Reading.

I was so focused on tossing worms up into her hair unnoticed, I didn’t notice when our mailman returned.

“Not bad,” he said, admiring my Pit. “But you forgot your ladder.”

He turned to The Kid. “That’s a good issue,” he said, smiling his own mischievous smile. “I read it last week. Everyone loves Beverly Cleary.”

Happy 100th Birthday, Beverly Cleary! For more, click the tag Beverly Cleary at 100.