Late Onset Whimsy

“I’m serious, if that woman who birthed me doesn’t get down out of that tree and come change my diaper right now, I’m going to lose my damn mind. I am sick and tired of not being listened to. I’ve got places to go and things to do, this is neither the time nor the place for dawdling!”

At least that’s what I’d say if I could. Instead, what comes is an unintelligible rhythmic babble followed by tears. Don’t judge me. When it’s all you’ve got, you use it.

Also, there’s no plan for dinner and the sun is starting to set. Last night, she forgot about me. She spent all evening chasing fireflies with a few of the other adults nearby. Thankfully my older brother grabbed me up and moved me into the fort. It’s big and sturdy, with ample logs to sit on, but it’s drafty and damp. It would be great if one of those grown humans could design and produce reliable building materials the way my brother can. He’s only 8, but he’s still got some expertise and the Childlike Whimsy doesn’t really start to set in until around age 11. Maybe he can fix this place up in the next few years, my back is killing me. Even still, on his own he’s no match for how big and strong they all are, out catching toads and stomping in mud puddles all day. Such is life.

Oh look, here she comes. Caked in mud and singing again, a daisy tucked behind her ear.

“Rainbow Crystal! I missed you so much!” She pins me into a bear hug, forgetting as she does that, she weighs 150 pounds and that her muscles are strong from days spent roaming the woods and climbing the outcroppings.

She puts me down rough, caught tin a moment of wonder as a moth flutters in. “Oh, I almost forgot! I made you something!” She pulls out a handful of mushed berries, a sprig of wild onion, and a few dandelion greens. “Dinner!” she shrieks with glee, “eat up!”

She grabs a lions’ share of the berries and eats with gusto.

“Ugh, what is that smell?! It’s disgusting!” She pretends to vomit. Really mature. But then she plugs her nose, lays me down, and unfastens the rudimentary buckskin diaper. She delicately cleans me off, sets me back down and begins yammering about the pond. The sun sets, and she yawns. I yawn, too; it’s bedtime.

“Rainbow Crystal, can you tell me a bedtime story!”

“Woman, you’ve got to be kidding me.” I think, but it comes out as mamamamamama. I guess that will do. She drifts off to sleep as the last rays of sunlight illuminate the slight wrinkles on her brow and the smile lines around her mouth. And despite the way she drives me crazy, I love her more than anything and stay up late just to watch her sleep.

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