Being that she’s a five year old girl, Ali has a lot of words.
And although she does enjoy her daily quiet time, the multitudes of unused words tend to build up within her soul.
To prevent a horrible drain clog, overflow, or some other gruesome word tragedy, Ali has begun writing notes during this time and leaving them at the top of the stairs for me to happen upon at the end of quiet time.
Sometimes they are written to alleviate our great concern for where she might be, if by chance we forgot that it was quiet time and couldn’t find our precious daughter.
Sometimes the notes build a fantastically crafted and increasing level of foreboding within my soul as I read one after the other.
I am in my room.
I am hideg.
In my room.
Red the ather sid bafor you red thes sid.
Note 2, Side B:
The girl could write horror films, that’s all I’m saying.
At the very beginning of this new writing phase, some of the notes were a bit hard to interpret, thanks to the complete absence of spaces between words.
We r selebradeg for a porde
a brthday porde ples come
ples ples ples
I doo not no wut I am saeg
jast cideg hauf u redeg and wideg and nutheg
After spending a good ten minutes deciphering and understanding that note (which must have been exactly what she wanted, since it was just exciting to have me reading and writing and nothing), I mentioned to her that perhaps she could offer me the greatest kindness of the gift of word spacing.
So the next day, I got this:
Her notes, at times, can portray the specific desperation that being alone can birth in the soul of a five year old:
Loc at my rom naw
ples ples wil you ples ples
ples ples ples ples ples ples ples ples ples ples ples ples ples ples
On one particular day, there were notes on several stairs. These were thrown strategically down the stairs, with a well-thought out contingency plan.
One one side,
And on the other,
Later, I asked her about this note. She shrugged and said, “When you’re throwing notes down the stairs, you don’t know which side they’ll land on. That’s why I wrote instructions to you.”
(Clearly she has quite a bit of faith in my ability to interpolate the need to turn over a piece of paper.)
Her notes, at times, will be a deep confession, most likely eating away at her soul throughout her quiet time.
For instance, she has a rainbow projector in her room. It lasts for fifteen minutes, and we turn it on every night as we leave the room. When it goes off, she’s supposed to quit playing and go to bed.
One day during quiet time, she left me this confession:
Another day, she confessed her quiet time activities.
Obviously, there’s quite the trend of bathroom concerns during quiet time (not to even mention her first quiet time ever resulting in the most traumatic bathroom issue of all time), but I finally got it through to her: You mess it up, you clean it.
After that, I received this one.
And, just in case the curiosity is overwhelming you (or the Great Fear and Foreboding of what she didn’t want me to know she cleaned up), this is The Side That Shall Not Be Read:
Because sometimes, a note is just a note.