What a strange feeling seeing my daughter’s door shut and wondering if I should knock. It’s always open. Always.
She only shuts it with a conspiring friend inside or after a storming huff, and I never knock in those situations.
Maybe she is tired and having a nap. It is the second day of the 6 week summer break, her first one, something she’s not entirely down with.
This is a child who got up and walked into the kitchen on the morning of the last day of school crying, “I don’t want school holidays”.
Who on the first day of the school holidays snarled, “I hate school holidays”.
There have been play-dates each day and we have read books together, been up in the garden, hula-hooped on the deck. But it’s only day 2.
I imagine she misses being part of a gaggle of children most. So many friends to flit about, so much to do and say in a world built for them.
With a cast on my leg I’ve been spending a lot of time down there, it’s a different world at their height, eye-to-eye with a 5 year-old. I can see why they leave so much on the floor; it’s a very handy surface with everything in reach.
It’s at least 45 minutes since she tootled down to her room after playing by the Christmas tree while I did the lunch-time dishes. I came down to see what was up about 15 minutes ago and, finding her door closed, slipped next door to the office to wonder if I should knock. Maybe my girl is growing-up, wanting private time? Or is she just having a nap?
I shall knock quietly as I imagine she will indeed be asleep. We’re not far off the longest day so each day stretches out with a tiring reach. She had a sudden snooze yesterday, in the sun on the spare bed while I wrote. She hasn’t napped here with me since she was 3.
It’s been a big year: her first at school.
She has learned to read and found a singing voice: grown noticeable inches in sudden spurts.
There is one other ‘maybe’ and that is maybe she is crying. But that is the smallest maybe of all.
Here we go. Knock-knock.
Wait, how do I knock on crutches?
I guess I’m about to find out.