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dream child

Last Sunday, after a swim lesson, a walk to the park and a visit to Dunky’s for her favorite donut, my daughter and I came home. Telling her that I’d like a little time to myself, I asked her to play on her own for a while, and set her up in the kitchen with plastic bowls and sponges. The assumption was that she’d ‘feed’ her animals with the bowls or make houses out of them.

I went to my study. Some whooshing noises came from the kitchen, and then a little while later the water went on and off. It was quiet in the house and it was easy for me to settle into some work at the computer. All was peaceful except for a few more soft swishing sounds. After a while, I got up to check on things.

My daughter was on her hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen floor.

Delighted but alarmed, I wondered if she had taken ill. (This was the child for whom picking ones clothes off the floor appeared diametrically opposed to her essential her nature and for whom the simple task of removing her plates from the table and placing them on the counter had required 1,247 reminders.)

I checked her forehead. It was cool and dry. I pinched myself. I was not asleep. My dream child was cleaning the kitchen floor.

{ 3 } Comments

  1. Mary | April 10, 2008 at 7:22 am | Permalink

    Sweet! May I borrow her this Sunday?

  2. Molly | April 10, 2008 at 8:31 am | Permalink

    Mary, you are too funny!

  3. Stacy | April 10, 2008 at 8:53 am | Permalink

    I was going to ask the same question. Do you rent her out? We’ve got a few floors that could benefit from some elbow grease!