Her Majesty emerged from her car seat in the regal carriage
(daddy’s pick-up truck) this morning with a diaper bag in tow, ready to spend the
day. We’ve been walking on royal
ground around here ever since.
Queen Lydia, age 14 months, is an organizer of all things
small and accessible, both approved and unapproved. She engineers mixing bowls and measuring spoons (approved) with
the certain flair of a would-be cook.
She explores the wastebasket (unapproved) with its flip-top lid, a veritable
treasure chest awaiting her own investigation and contribution.
She turns the pages of board books, the same dog-eared ones
that belonged to her mother, and then plunges them off the couch one by one
like men overboard: ker-plop,
plop, plop, plop, plop.
Her Royal Highness is an avid birdwatcher (feeders are just
a few feet from the window by the piano), raisin eater (queen-sized, organic
black raisins resemble dwarf prunes), and cheerer-upper (who can not be uplifted
by her slight but radiant presence toddling through the house?). She loves oversized bouncy balls. One stands almost as tall as the Little
Queen, and yet each time I throw it across the room she eagerly retrieves and
carries it back to me, stretching her arms and grunting with so much effort. Then once unburdened, she claps for herself.
All hail the sovereign Queen!
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