So I’m working in the boys’ room, which doubles as my office. Someone knocks on the door. I can hear little voices peeping, so as I unlock and open the door I'm already looking down.
The Golden Weasel, a bizarrely confident and assured 5-year-old, walks past me without saying anything, her arms full of matchbox cars. The 3-year-old, sometimes called Ham both for his thespian qualities as well as his body shape, trots in behind.
She dumps the cars on the bed as Ham begins trying to climb over the still raised bedrail.
I say, "Are you...coming in to play?"
The Golden Weasel smiles at me beatifically. "Yes."
I laugh. "I'm so sorry, buttercup, but...no. Not right now."
She looks at me, shocked. Without a word, she grabs the cars and leaves. Ham follows her faithfully.
I sit down to type this when there's a knock at the door, a single rap, low down.
I get back up and unlock the door. Ham comes in past me, goes right to a bookshelf and grabs 2 of the 4 cars off it and walks out.
Wondering if I'm going to have to get up yet again to unlock the door, I say to him, "Are you going to need the other cars?"
He turns and looks at me, confused. "No."
Because why on earth would he?
Not the actual event but merely a remarkable recreation.