It's vacation, time for fun and games and running around and gingerbread cookies and presents and candy canes.
We spin around the room, me feeling giant, like a monster hanging her from my arm, and she squeals in terror and in glee. We dance and the music blares and she comes to a rest just above me, suspended in mid air on my feet before returning to the ground.
When did I last get my coffee? How long did I sleep for last night? Six hours? A record of late since I stopped liking sleep.
"You're going to drop her on her head," says a far away voice from the top of the stairs, and we ignore it, falling over laughing before leaping back up to try a new move.
My room reeks of nail polish (my favorite paint) and is full of wrapping paper. "Done," I send with a picture of the presents, wrapped in their pretty bows and glittery paper, the exciting facades for the less than thrilling contents.
iTunes picks the next song, a Chumbawumba that matches my mood exactly, and I feel bad because I spin a little too fast and her head whips around and narrowly misses the railing of the couch. But she grins and says to do a different trick so I do and it's fun.
This book is interesting but not enough to be entertaining. Do I have a headache or a caffeine buzz or am I just too tired to continue? I slept two nights in a row how is this happening?"*
"Can we dance again?" "Sure, go find some Christmas music." And then we danced, her eight year old frame spinning and flipping and leaping and running around the tiny room that is our basement.