We’ve just finished a lunch of toasted cheese; mine dribbled with hot Nandos sauce. It’s quiet – obviously Riley’s preschool day.
“What are we going to do?” I ask. “Just you and me. Girl time.”
Keira shrugs tiredly. “I don’t know.”
“We can stay here or go out for a little while.”
“Can we go into the city?” asks Keira, suddenly brightening.
“Not enough time,” I say, relieved.
For Keira, the city promises visits to Adam, sitting in his break-room, sipping hot chocolate and buying fund-raising lollies. For me, it means driving in traffic, cursing at rule-breaking pedestrians and over-paying for parking.
Then she spies the box in the lounge room, a new addition to our space: a 1970’s tan pleather ottoman, with lid. Inside is all of Adam’s Lego from when he was a child, saved by his mother and recently handed back to her son.
“I want to play LEGO!” she says, and we sit down for about an hour of play.
Construction sets have never really been for my daughter. Up until now she’s been more interested in using her hands for drawing or writing. Yet this year of preschool has seen her pick up glues, sticky-tapes, stickers, fabric swatches, cardboard and any number of other materials to ‘make things’. Similarly, she is taken with the Lego, feels the satisfaction we all do when we push those little blocks on top of the other, creating something. Even if it’s only a wall.
This is the time I find fascinating: when she realises there is so much more she can do, that is available to her. What the world can bring, or what you can bring into it.
Even if it is just a little Lego garden.
