 |
| Hide n’ seek foyer time. |
There are few things nicer than lining up hordes of Little People (the teensy, plasticky ones- not folks with dwarfism) and shoving them into neon-colored houses and miniature fairy castles. It helps if one’s assistant is a miniature, round-cheeked gal herself. Farm equipment and bus stop accessories optional.
Nora loves her toys. Loves putting them precisely where they ought to go and then belly-flopping them into smithereens. Both activities make her so happy that it’s hard to be concerned about the three-plus hours it’ll take to find each and every worker, child and forest creature. (Hint: Check the VCR.)
Yes, we still have a VCR.
Here’s what makes playing with Nora so great: she has no concept of spatial limitations, thusly, anything is possible. Her newest manner of playing with her dollhouse is to upend it, feed dolls and toys and blocks through the windows, and then somehow shove the thing up on its side to admire her handiwork. Then she stands on it. The whole thing comes off looking like Godzilla meets The Poseidon Adventure. There are few survivors.
Sure, in some regards she’s all girl; she constantly taps her chest with a tutu or small apron before handing it to me and declaring “dat” and patiently waiting for me to dress her in it. She holds her babies to her neck (sometimes upside down) and pats their backs, singing “Rockabeeeeee.” But then she bodyslams them to the ground. And hits them with a shoe. Or tries to wrap an apron or dishtowel around a wayward cat.
The other day she tried to eat the cats’ dry food. When I took it away from her with a ‘no’ and a reminder of whose food that was, she raced to the other room and dumped a bowl of water down her shirt. And shook her finger at herself- No. With a smile.
During dinner prep two nights ago, it was quiet for about fifteen seconds. I poked my head around the corner and saw her eyes go big. Because she was standing in the middle of the couch, arms splayed as if she were about to jump or fly. When she realized I had caught her in the act, she slowly slid down the couch to to her bottom. And smiled. You know, the kind of smile that suggested I ought to go back into the kitchen…no, really. I’ll just wait right here. On my bottom.
But when she finds a book- or stack of books- that she really likes (for example, all of the ones in the kitchen, bedroom, and playroom), she’ll sit for a good forty minutes and read. She turns the pages and oohs and ahhs over babies, animals, and old issues of Time. Sometimes she talks to them. Or berates them. But mostly she just flips the pages and smiles. And it’s awesome, because during those moments of fabulous stillness and silence, I get to cook and fold and clean and write and sometimes- just sometimes- go to the bathroom.
When I’m not feeling well, she allows me to sit on the floor and feed her instant oatmeal for breakfast. She patiently kneels in front of me and sighs with each bite, knowing that I’m really gonna be phoning it in today.
And on days when I’m really not feeling well, Nora lets me lay facedown on the floor for pretty decent stretches of time. She even brings her trolls and superheroes and small cars over to kiss my cheek and jump on my back.
I think I was wrong, before. Really. Sixteen months is the best age for a person to be, ever. I mean it this time.
A jury this large (and varied) cannot be wrong. Except for maybe the trolls.
They’ll say whatever you want to hear.
Speak Your Mind