Little Weaver Bird

Yesterday morning, Opal and I were playing in her room, a gift-box of a room where heat gathers even when the rest of the house is frosty as a mug, as her morning nap-time crept up on us.

She contentedly did her own thing, moved back and forth from corner to corner, placing diaper covers and blankets into the laundry basket as if they were delicate glass going in the curio, arranged them and promptly took them out again.

I stretched my hamstrings (mama yogurr, in Opal-ese) until the sudden point in which she was ready to include me in the action, expressed by bringing over the Halloween Dora book (with over 19 flaps!) and plopping it on the floor in front of me, saying read book, mama.

Sure, sweetie. Climb into mommy's lap.

Notha blankie she said and made her way over to lift a mighty heap of blankets and carry them valiantly back to me, teetering like a the single-leg of a heron caught in a gust of wind. She dropped the flannel jumble onto my legs with a grand ugh.

Great idea, honey. Nice book-reading mass. Climb on up.

Notha blankie! she said in the tone that suggests having been unavoidably interrupted by another prominent agenda.

On she went to bury mama in a grand mountain of blankets and diaper covers, one exerting arm-ful at a time. She included each and every stuffed animal in the vicinity—including Crib-Crew, The Bottom Basket Forgotten Ones and Major and Minor Fluffy—leaving no plush character behind. Juice-and-water was placed close enough to reach.

I was spellbound, eyes fixed as if watching a Discovery Channel exclusive on Weaver Birds, masters of nest-making. Finally, she took a sweeping glance around the room for a moment of consideration and quietly concluded her work was complete.

Okay, honey. A job well done.

Into my lap she climbed, wiggled and stirred until she had herself effectively swallowed in the pile in a way that was to her liking. She re-handed me the Dora book, saying Hola Dorey—coupled with a subtle grin that indicated a level of satisfaction with her efforts—and I thus I began.

Hola! I'm Dora and this is Boots...

we were not even halfway into the first page when Opal yelled UP and pushed herself out of my lap, out of the blessed heap—abrupt and urgent—and out of the room entirely through the door that had not been fully closed. Before I set the book down and resurrected from beneath the load, she was down the hall in search of her next venture.