On Monday, you were Santa Claus, pulling around your "sleigh" -- a plastic blue and grey toy shopping cart -- filled with "presents" -- four foam blocks containing, respectively, a toy cow, an asthma inhaler, plastic scissors, and some crescent-shaped plastic green object from parts unknown.
You walk down the hall yelling "Ho, ho, ho" and bring presents to your daddy, who is pretending to be asleep on the kitchen floor. Then you return to the North Pole, previously purposed as your mommy and daddy's bathroom, and start your magical journey all over again.
But this is not quite enough, therefore you request something red to wear so as to be a bit more convincing. Your daddy finds one of his shirts -- a red beach t-shirt -- that you eagerly climb into. Once a red and grey baseball cap is added, the ensemble is complete.
It is Tuesday now and we have come to the park. The weather is about as perfect as weather can be -- sunny and breezy, with the seductive coolness of fall. It's the kind of day that seems to become a little more scarce with each passing year.
You and your sister begin to bound down the hill towards the playground. About halfway, you change your mind. You stop, turn around, and tell me you want to go down to the bridge and throw rocks in the water. It is something we have done just once, the last time we came here, right near the end of our visit. That you remember it and are choosing it above the swings and slides causes my soul to smile.
So your mother follows along after Harper to the playground, while you and I make our way down to the creek, or "river" as you will call it later.
At first, you sit on the bridge hanging your legs off the side. I get a little nervous wondering if you could slip through the railing but I try hard to let you be. You and your sister will never know the thousands of times my hands have been right there, an inch or two away, ready to catch you in case you fall.
We cross over to the far side and began to pick up rocks and throw them into the "river." I search for good skipping rocks. You mimic my movements, appearing as if you're looking for just the perfect stone yourself. You can't skip them yet, but that doesn't stop you from sidearming them into the water like your daddy.
We continue there for what must be twenty or thirty minutes. I finally have to remind you about the playground. But before we leave the creek bank, you notice a couple of people disc golfing and ask what they are doing.
I explain to you about the discs and the baskets and you ask if we have any at home. I tell you that we have some discs and if the weather is nice we can come back tomorrow and throw them into the baskets.
At some point during my explanation, I must have used the term frisbee when referring to the discs. And somehow you must have mixed up frisbee with Rice Krispies, because for the rest of the day you keep asking if we can go back to the park tomorrow and play "rice frisbees."
And I fall a little bit more in love with you.
