We’re on a break over at piperism. We’re sleeping in, splashing in pools, gorging on library books, and traveling. We’ll be back soon. With even more laughs. Promise.
Piper and Piper’s Keeper
We’re celebrating summer birthdays in Piper’s class today. She’ll be 6 in July, so I volunteered to bring in the (non-dairy, peanut free) treat. Piper knew exactly what we needed.
“You should bring donuts, Mom. Krispy Kremes,” Piper specified.
Turns out Krispy Kreme donuts are in fact non-dairy and peanut free. Oh, and they have a drive-thru, which moms like me adore.
“Anything else?” I asked. I really shouldn’t have.
“A disco ball. Yep. We’ll need a disco ball.”
“Really? A disco ball? For what?”
“For making all my dreams come true. It’s my birthday, you know.”
This morning at breakfast, Sissy, Daddy, and I told stories of baby Piper.
We told her how she liked to sit in a doll stroller and make us push her in endless loops around our house in Illinois. If we stopped, she’d simply point her finger in the direction she wanted to go and grunt. We obeyed.
We told that she did the Ting-A-Ling Silly Circus clown dance 4 million times. One of our hands was the buzzer she had to hit to do her silly dance again.
We told her that she didn’t talk much because the three of us were there to anticipate her every need. Why speak with this kind of service?
“We’re your biggest fans, Piper. The three of us adore you,” I said.
“Make that four,” Piper said, “I am a big fan of mine, too”
I made a berry pie for dessert tonight. It’s cooling on the countertop. The crust is flaky and brown. Blueberry and blackberry juices have seeped out a bit at the side. The house smells delicious.
It would be a Norman Rockwell moment really except that I have to yell “PIPER, GET AWAY FROM THE PIE!” every other second.
She sniffs it. She pokes the pie. She tries to slip a finger into the berry juices.
“If you don’t get away from the pie, I’ll…I’ll…stuff your face in it!” I yell. Not my best parenting move, I’ll give you that. It just came out.
“Well, Mom,” Piper said, “that’s kind of what I was hoping for.”
“Mom, have you seen my sock?”
“What’s it look like, P?”
“It’s small and it fits on my foot.”
“Thanks. I meant what color is it? Where did you take it off?”
“Oh. I was dancing in the kitchen and some of my clothes flew off.”
“They flew off, Piper?”
“Sort of. I was dancing pretty hard. Wait. There it is. It’s up on the bird art on the wall. Silly sock.”
Piper is known for her play. She has an incredible imagination. She can make a game out of anything, anywhere. Her best material, though, probably comes from life.
Right now she’s in the living room sorting through the leftover plastic junk that we often toss into the footstool, which is supposed to be a toy box. Our cleaning is sporadic and mostly of the quick-hide-as-much-as-you-can-there’s-someone-at-the-door variety. You can imagine the footstool bits. You may even remember that I once found Piper stuffing her dirty socks in there in her best hoarder move yet. (You can refresh your memory here)
Her game today involves a wooden doll, three Legos, a dishtowel, a stuffed chihuahua, and seventeen pieces of broken Happy Meal plastic parts.
“You guys want to play all day?” the wooden doll yells.
“We do!” the chorus of bits replies.
“But what about your chores?” prods the wooden doll, raising her voice. “How come I have to be the bad guy?”
The chorus has no good answer. If the wooden doll could move her wooden arms to her wooden hips, she would.
Piper’s voice is now shrieking. “Don’t you think I want to play too? But no. I’m the bad guy. You know you have chores to do. Why do you always make me be the bad guy?”
The chorus throws themselves one by one back into their foot stool. Piper makes the wooden doll mumble loudly to herself about how she has to tell everyone around here everything to do when they really should be doing it themselves. Grumble. Grumble.
It doesn’t sound like make believe anymore.