Share on Google+

Three in The Sahara

Almost three, and my child’s imagination is burgeoning—exploding, to be more apt.  From dawn till dusk we’re off on an incredible journey, rich and layered, replete with fantastical details.

These mornings we’ve been starting with the Potato Heads, newly unearthed from the depths of the toy box. Cayce enjoys “dressing” them in their arms, their ears, their eyes, the Woody cowboy hat for Mr. Potato Head.  “Now they’re good as new!” he cries out, when finished. 
Or he’ll say:
“These don’t de-blong to him.  These de-blong to HER!” as he switches the shoes on Mrs. Potato Head. 

“We saw these at the Toys-Aw-Wus. They not real. They just toys,” he says, throwing out his arms for emphasis.

After playing with the Potato Heads, whose parts we just collected from the depths of the toy box (so that it felt to Cayce like a brand new toy: “Thank you, Mommy!” he exclaimed. “Thank you!”), Cayce put on his fireman’s coat and helmet and became Chief Cayce, coming to save the day. Fireman Cayce to the rescue. Chief Fireman putting out the fire. Chief Fireman rescuing Curious George.  It was a busy morning.

Once the sun comes up over the trees and dries off some of the dew, we’re out in the back yard. With the garden hose we fill up the water table, and the little kiddy pool.  I water the tomato plants and watermelons that are growing on the side of the garage (the only things we seem to have managed to grow this year), and listen to my little one, off to the races, immersed in some world with Captain Hook and Jake and a crocodile.

Later, back inside the house:
C:  Why you have your hair like that? 
Me: It’s called a ponytail.
C: Why you have it like that?
Me: You don’t like it?
C: No. Can you change it, Mommy? Can you change your hair to another way?

Obligingly, I pull my hair out of the elastic band. He smiles approvingly.
Me: Like this?
C: Yes.

We like take walks in the evenings and talk about all the ways we could get to the moon.
He tries jumping, a little jump-acting, just enough to express that it’s a futile activity. “I can’t,” he says.
“We have to get a ladder!” he says.
“Yes, a ladder! Or a big pogo stick.
“A pogo stick?”
“Yes a pogo stick. And we could go boing! boing! and bounce our way right up to the moon.”
“Or maybe a kite, Mommy. Could we with a kite?”
“Sure we could, honey.”
“How, Mommy? How?”
“We’d just hold on to the tail of that kite,” I say, “and someone would let out the string.” 

Today, on his stroll for nap, he said, “Let’s do another one, Mommy, with a table and a bench.”
“Another lemonade stand?”
“Yes. Let’s do another one, Mommy. Let’s make some more! There’s a lot of people.”