“Call me a rock.”
Little Miss Sunshine loves bathtime. No matter her mood, a bath will settle her down. Her already high little-girl voice raises an octave as she softly murmurs a dialog between her mermaid toys: i’m a good swimmer i can swim fast too flounder don’t be such a guppy let’s swim to the cove today i’d like to come along but watch out for that shark he’s hungry.
Eventually, after many warnings, I pull the plug. She sighs and gets out of the tub.
“Call me a rock,” she says, curling up in a ball on the bathmat, completely hidden by her towel.
That’s my cue to start my lines in her little play. Any protests that I am too tired or it’s too late or I just don’t feel like it today, not after doing the same thing for the past 100 days, are just met with louder and louder demands to be called a rock. “CALL ME A ROCK,” she calls from her hiding place, as if my protests mean I have gone deaf.
Here’s my part: “Oh, look, such a lovely rock! It’s so big and pretty, all covered with flowers. I’d love to take it home to my garden. I’ll just pick it up…oh that’s funny. It’s all lumpy…here…and here…and here [insert some giggling]…why, this isn’t a rock at all!”
Little Miss Sunshine peeks out. “Meow?”
Me: “Ooooh, it’s a little kitty! A wee white kitty, hiding under a blanket! She is so cute and soft! What is your name, kitty?”
Her, very high and squeaky: “Marie.”
Me: “And do you have a famiy, Marie?”
Her: shakes her head forlornly
Me: “Would you like to come home and live with me? I would love you forever. I have a nice room where you can sleep and a little stuffed bear that will be your special friend.”
Her: nodding happily and jumping into my lap “Meow!”
She is the director, and I am just a player on her stage. She’ll decide when we have enough takes of Call Me A Rock.
[This post is part of Brie’s series called Monday Moments – her prompt for this Monday was “hiding.” It’s not Monday. Better late than never?]