I was left to my own devices with the toddler tonight, so I did what any sane individual would do and threw a square dance for the 23-month-old and her coterie of stuffies.
I played guitar, sang, and called the steps, making sure that each plush plaything got its fair share of floor time.
I must say, she did remarkably well for the first 20 minutes or so, working through the simple moves that I hollered and treating her animal squad with something resembling respect.
Then it all became much too much…
She tried (and succeeded) to pick up all of her stuffed friends at once and then became a whirling dervish, with control the very last thing on her mind. After several minutes of her spinning, I decided to pull the plug and stopped playing.
And when the music dropped, so did the toddler. She looked at me with a confused combination of elation and trepidation and promptly planted face on the hardwood floor.
Thankfully, there were several cushy critters there to break her fall.
“Bathtime?” I asked.
“Bafftime,” she replied weakly.
Bafftime was spent peacefully singing along to Raffi and doing an inventory of places she could reach with her washcloth. Two short books later, she was in her crib.
I haven’t heard a peep since.