My niece and nephew (Queen Lucy, five and half, and Skater Boy, three) spent Friday night at my house. All went very well (blogging typos aside), with one little problem.
Late Friday afternoon, Skater Boy went looking for his Spider-Man action figure, which he was sure he had packed and put in the bag. We went through his suitcase (and Queen Lucy's) three times before determining that the action figure had been left home. Tears threatened. Trying to preserve happiness, I tried to figure out what I had that could make him happy. Books? He loves books, but please -- you cannot play "here's the bad guy" with a book. Stuffed animals? He's not a baby.
Then Skater Boy looked up my bookcase, up up up, and he smiled. Skater Boy has an awesome smile. What had he spied at the top of the bookcase?
"Open that box."
Skater Boy had found an action figure. Oh, better than that: he had found three. Only for him would I do it. I opened the boxes.
And first, the Librarian was walking down the street.
And then the Bad Guy, William, attacked her.
And then Jane rescued the Librarian.
I, of course, was the Librarian. Skater Boy was the Bad Guy; Queen Lucy was Jane.
And the kids took the action figures home with them. Apparently, they held up very well at bath time.
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