This was the weekend of forts. If you know The Kidling personally (as in, you have met her in real life. I admit that is a wholly arbitrary distinction. Many of you loyal readers surely know her as well as anyone else), this might seem to be an odd statement.
“Aren’t they all weekends of forts?” you are asking your iPads/phones/computer screens. “Wouldn’t a more accurate statement be ‘this is a lifetime of forts.’? The Mama should check with me before clicking ‘publish’. I could tell her a thing or two.”
And you would be right.
But (there is always a ‘but’), I’m talking about something a wee different than usual. Hence, the distinction. I’m the writer, and a weekend of forts, it is. A weekend of forts on her bed. A weekend of forts during which I caved and let The Kidling go to sleep in said forts. Forts, forts, forts, forts, forts.
On that glorious, fort-sleeping evening, The Kidling prepared her bed for a night’s rest. She tucked and adjusted, rearranged and spread. Once everything was in its rightful place, she picked up a flag she had made and looked around the fort with great contemplation. The silver tassels glittered as she waved it around, thinking. Before I had a chance to ask what on earth she was doing, The Kidling thought out loud,
“If only I could find some logical way to stick this in here somehow!”
If, dear Kidling, you find that logic, let me know. I misplaced mine very shortly after your birth.