The other day Eva told me a story. Actually she tells a lot of stories these days. They tend to be preceded by loud announcements around the house: “The story is starting! The story is starting!” The story is often starting soon after wake-up, so her announcements sometimes continue on for a bit while I stare at the coffee maker, willing it to drip more quickly.
I like to think we’re both enjoying the anticipation.
Yesterday’s story involved a rogue leopard who had gained entrance into a Fisher Price dollhouse (it’s so hard to maintain security when your house splits down the middle and swings open) and sprinkled each room with poison. Luckily, just as a baby’s life seemed in danger, a splay-legged fairy (there’s supposed to be a horse between her legs, but whose legs wouldn’t look better straddling a horse?) swooped down and de-toxified the house.
The baby was saved!
Just then the doll-house phone rang.
“Yes?” said the fairy, leaning now against the pink kitchen wall. “Oh! Wow! Okay, I’ll be right there.”
Hanging up the phone, the fairy addressed me directly. “Twins are being born,” she announced pertly, “gotta go!”
And with that she was off.
A student-midwife’s daughter. And my own life reflected–however curiously–in the stories she tells.
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