As I have told you before, Jake's relationship with Olivia provides me with an elation that easily helps me ride out the bottle washing, poo wiping, and the very idea of going through the alphabet again at age 43. His playing with her is genuine, and I have been blessed with a son who seemingly, at age ten, actually shares in her delight as Oscar the Grouch jumps out of his trash can singing a garbage ditty.
The other day I purchased her a new toy, as she was tired of the three I had previously purchased and the two that were gifts (I am a toy-tightwad). It wasn't even on sale, but it was the cutest Little People's Noah's Ark set. Jake opened it for her (battling those laborious anti-theft, anti-pleasure twist-ties), and a mere hour later they were loading the animals on the boat. By loading I mean Jake was catapulting the animals with a paddle, and Olivia was gnawing Noah's bald head.
Together they made a pleasant, if unlikely, playdate. I was able to send a few emails (if you were not one of the recipients I apologize; I will buy a new toy in a month so keep lookout), wash a couple of bottles, and fold some underwear. And I became so immersed in my joy of getting "ahead" by tackling the to-do list on page April 17th of my daybook that I stopped paying attention to their party altogether.
But as I checked in, the predictable had happened. Olivia had crawled away and was chewing on an old toy at the opposite corner of the rug. Jake had not noticed and was now really into the ark scene: checking animals off Noah's list, and pretending the torrent was moments away.
"Jake," I laughingly pointed out. "I guess Olivia got bored."
"No," he sheepishly admitted. "She didn't. I moved her; she kept picking up the animals and messing up the game."
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