Behold My Works

I’m hot.  This makes me grumpy, and sweeps away any vestiges of comedic ability that I might have.  Which is not great when there is a blog post to write and funnies to be made.  However, in the midst of my wallowing in self pity, which is generally the case with me when the temperature gets up above 20 degrees, about 70 Fahrenheit for those of you who speak foreign, I began to wonder about the little girl, whether she was feeling as hot and grumpy as me.  It would certainly explain the fact that she has just completely demolished one of her toys.  Literally, it is sat in bits in the middle of the floor right now looking reproachfully at me as I write this instead of fixing it.

Hang on, just wait there a moment please.

There, sorry about that, it’s done now, back in pristine condition waiting to be pulled apart again .  Which brings me to a question that I want to ask.  Why is my daughter such a destructoid?  I can foresee a great career in wrecking for her.  I think her dream holiday would be a tour of Britain’s 100 biggest demolition sites.

Pulling down blocks that have been stacked into a tower I can understand, it’s quite exciting and feels a little rebellious, and there is the anticipation of watching daddy building the tower.  Tower destruction I am totally on board with, but what is it that drives a little person, specifically my little person, to take a perfectly nice toy, or piece of paper, or furniture, and slowly but surely pull it into its constituent parts. 

No matter how often you explain to her that actually that car would really probably prefer to remain with all its wheels on, and both doors still intact, and that actually it will be much more fun to play with if it isn’t separated  out into a hundred little pieces, it doesn’t make a difference. She will peer at you as though she can’t understand how you can’t see that this is what she has always wanted to do with her life, turn back to pulling the car apart and then just merrily move on to the next thing that looks like it is retaining its integrity and disintegrate it.  She is never happier than when she can stand and survey her handiwork, like some miniature Ozymandias, proclaiming her own domination over all things within her view. 

Come on Daddy, fix my toys!

There is a particular look that comes over her face at times like this.  When she looks over her domain, and the devastation that she has caused, with a sort of delighted gleam in her eye.  It’s usually at this point that she wants me to come and wrestle with her on the floor, when she has littered it with small, incredibly pointy objects that are just right for lodging into your back and puncturing one of your lungs.  She will peer up expectantly at me and not say anything, but assumes that I will understand. I think she’s trying to perfect her Jedi mind powers, but no Yoda yet is she.

Wrestling then ensues which involves me grabbing her and falling to the floor, desperately trying to avoid the little traps she has set for me whilst she tries to steer me into them, at least that’s what it seems like.  We play this game until either she is bored or I whistle around the room like a punctured balloon, at which point the process of reconstruction begins until all the toys are back in one piece and ready for the next round.

    There is a slight variation on this game which we play whereby instead of wrestling, N hides some of the pieces that she has pulled apart in places of varying difficulty and then ranks me on the speed at which I can find them, like a treasure hunt where instead of treasure you just get the constituent parts of six toys that you have to rearrange back into something resembling the toys that they once were.

The really worrying thing is that occasionally I’m sure I have caught her glancing over at me with her Ozymandias look in her eye. The look that says I’ve got your measure and at any time I could assert my dominance over you.  Clearly, now that my little girl is growing up I’ve got bigger things to worry about than the heat.