IKEA boxes and the packaging. What fun for a three-year-old. There was a telescope and a roof on a pot. Then there was a bed and blanket. I thought to help out a little, recruiting another box, and made a house. Much fun was had taking off shoes, putting the telescope in the new box, taking a nap, getting up.
Every once and awhile, the wind would push on the box, ripple the flag, and E would ask “Will it fall down?” or something like that. Each time I reassured him that his house was sturdy and, if it did fall, we’d fix it together.
Then, when there was little wind, he’d gathered his shoes and water bottled, crawled out of his house and told me in a very commanding tone of voice, “My house, it’s exploding, we have to go to Ms. V’s house!” And he began running across the lawn. I followed, of course. We turned to look at his house. “Oh, no, my house is on fire.”
Thank heavens for Mr. Rogers. As I kneeled in the wet lawn, looking back at his house (which hadn’t even fallen over), I said, “Look at all the helpers helping your house.”
“Oh, yeah, the helpers. Look at all the helpers!” [long pause] “Oh, the helpers, they fixed it. My house is all fixed.” And he gathers up his shoes and water bottle and heads back in, makes himself cozy, and says, “My house is all fixed.”
I think we’re going to be okay.