Rilla: If you see a book called Trolls with a troll on it who has a very long nose, it’s out because I’m using it for the scarf I’m making.
Me: Oooh! What kind of scarf?
Rilla: One that’s twelve inches long. That’s how big the book is.
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Huck and Rilla and I have just finished reading three chapters of The Boxcar Children—they wouldn’t let me stop—and now I give Huck a big squeeze and say, “Okay, baby, time to go play.” He’s surprised I’ve called him “baby”—I usually say “monkey” or “my love” (same difference)—and shoots a reproachful gaze my way.
“I’m not a baby.”
“I know. But you used to be, so it still pops out sometimes.”
He considers. “But I am still little.” Burrows a little closer into my side.
“Mm-hmm.” His hair has that magical small-child scent, half fruity shampoo and half little-boy-sweat.
He takes a deep breath, as if about to unburden himself of a trouble. “That’s why I’ve been wondering…”
“Yes?” The moment has become suddenly fraught; whatever is coming, it’s clearly a serious matter.
“I’ve been wondering why nobody cuts the crusts off my sandwiches.”
Rilla: The next time I eat an apple, can I plant one of the seeds in the back yard?
Me: Sure!
Rilla: Oh good. I’ve really been wanting a climbing tree back there.
I’m playing with my sidebars again. Not finished yet, but I’ve run out of time for tonight. Just popping in to say hi. Hi!
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