in which I remember the mournful demise of Emily's "favorite" jumper.
I was in my room this evening, enjoying the start of a new book and a moment of semi-privacy. The door was open, which is about the same thing as having it shut, because a door never kept anyone in this house from knocking and entering unless it was locked first. From the other end of the house came the sound of forceful sobbing, which grew louder as the pajama-clad sobber sought the refuge of her mama's sympathy. Emily climbed up onto the bed with me and buried her head in my armpit. I dutifully asked her, "What's wrong?" Her crying was so loud and hard that I could barely understand her.
It seems that the jumper that I pulled out of the back of her closet yesterday, that threadbare one with the zigzag stitching across the shoulder to keep it together a bit longer, you know, the one that is so faded that it doesn't even resemble the original color, and is too short, yes, that one, that jumper suffered a major tear at the knee. It's not salvageable. Isn't it weird how something a child hasn't seen in months suddenly becomes their favorite? Emily bawled, "It's just like when you find an old doll in the shed and you love her and want to sleep with her! Boo hoo hoo hoo!"
Oh dear. Such drama over an inanimate object. She asked me if she could cut off a little piece and keep it for the memories. I asked her if she wanted to sleep with it. A little giggle escaped, then more tears. "Noooo!" Hm. Maybe she would like to cut a piece from it for wiping her violin down? The tears stop on a dime. The face brightens. "That would be nice!!" (I know how much fun it is for a seven year old to be allowed to use the fabric scissors.) Problem solved. Daddy even acquired a few new rags for his bicycle maintenance.
Whew. That was easy.