The Show

My four-year-old doesn’t take naps anymore. But in an effort to preserve my sanity and to also let her recharge, I have her play quietly in her room during her little brothers’ nap time. “Relaxing”, we call it. Her routine usually consists of taking every single piece of clothing out her closet and out of her drawers. She than tries each piece on, generally pairing an outfit with a princess slipper or tennis shoe—depending on her mood. Once her outfit has been chosen, she quickly (and loudly) removes each toy from its bin and every stuffed animal from their place on the shelf. And than the fun begins.

After an hour (ahem …or two) I walk in to find a rolling sea of garments, foot attire, and various knickknacks that obscure any sign of original flooring. She has created a fairy garden, or perhaps a princess party. One never knows.

Yesterday I entered her room to find something different; the usual scattering of playthings were there, but in the midst of it she had placed a stool. On the stool, she had built a castle of Legos, with princesses set directly in front of it. There was also a Ken doll laying on his back with his legs up in the air, who looked like he had passed out from the all the excitement.

“Welcome to my show!” she announced. “Please, sit.”

And so I did.

I immediately noticed that her mouth and surrounding area were covered in a thick, white goop of chapstick which she was still clutching in her sweaty palm. She looked just like Tyrone Biggums. (Am I dating myself with a Chappelle Show reference?)

Cradling her newborn brother, I parked myself in front of her stool and waited for the performance to start.

“Welcome,” she began. “This is a wonderful show for you to watch. Would you like me to begin?” Without pausing she continued. “This is a castle and these are my princesses. Let me show you how everything works.”

At this point, she removed a Lego from the uppermost peak and threw it at my face.

“TA-DA!” she shouted triumphantly.

Normally I don’t condone thick, plastic items being chucked at my beautiful mug but it was part of the show. She continued to remove Legos and throw them around the room, all the while narrating with bazar comments like, “There she goes!” and, “Wow look how that thing flies!”

Once the castle had been scaled down to a modest building, she set off humming. Pulling the sash off of her robe, she fished it through a Lego window, very slowly.

“This is the best part,” she whispered.

The princesses danced around the castle and Ken eventually rose from the floor. Songs were sung and more chapstick was applied.

I am oddly proud of this six-minute production that she put on. It was wildly creative. It included danger (Legos flying at the audience), suspense (will the castle fall?) and romance (did Ken and Princess Belle find true love?). While these “relaxing” times are a somewhat selfish move on my part to have a moment to myself, they also provide my daughter with uninterrupted time to imagine. And the results, although messy, are high entertaining.

It is in these moments, these uninterrupted specs of time, that I remember the value of setting down my phone and being present. Time is fleeting and the “shows” of a four-year-old will soon pass. Too soon she will be too busy to share her thoughts and imagination. There are only so many times she will look like Tyrone Biggums and chuck Legos around her bedroom like the ringmaster of a crazy Barbie/Princess circus. And I will treasure these memories like only a parent can.

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