Your new favorite game, I pause to note while I'm supposed to be writing a pirate novel, and while you enjoy only your third day of Montessori since December 17, despite never testing positive for COVID yourself, involves rescue. First, you like to fall down in a dramatic fashion and I must rush to your aid, assessing you for booboos and covering any pretend booboos with kisses. Then you tell me I have to fall down too, so I do, usually clutching my knee as if I've just been in a terrible ski accident and you come over and give me a kiss and I am all better. Lately this game has gotten more elaborate. One of us will lie on the floor of your room, maybe near a sofa cushion, and call out "help! I'm stuck!" while the other must first don a hat and then get in your bed on the floor and drive the fire engine that the mattress has become, making siren noises and speeding through traffic, before jumping out and rushing over to the victim's aid, and then lifting up whichever of us was stuck.
"I fire fighter," you announce after rescuing me, with your hands clasped modestly behind your back, shrugging like it's no big thing.
"Say, all in a day's work, Ma'am," your dad urges you.
"Allna days work mama," you say.
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