Over the weekend the kids were playing quietly in the girl’s room. That’s a dead giveaway that they are probably doing something wrong.
So I poke my head in there to see what’s going on. Maren is sitting their cutting pieces of paper into a million tiny pieces (which her mom will clean up a day later). In the corner is little Brant.
Playing by himself.
And a dollhouse.
I played with dolls when I was a kid. But we didn’t call them dolls, we called them G.I. Joe’s or He-Man or Macho Man Action Figures. We called them that because we’re boys and boys don’t play with dolls.
Last night he was all over the place with a pair of Buzz Lightyear toys, so everything’s back to normal. Then this morning, after I got him out of bed, I walked back in and he had a pile dolls, beds, etc. putting them all “night-night.”
He offset the dolls with a Pirate t-shirt and a Lightning McQueen slipper that doubled as a bed. Still, when I get home today, I’m going to switch all the dolls out for Buzz and Woody and Lightning. I bet I can fit Finn McMissile in that crib, right?