(October 18, 2015)

Each year, I look forward to October’s arrival, when temperatures finally fall below 90, the wind starts to pick up, and I can actually enjoy being outside with the sunshine on my skin, without feeling like an all-you-can-eat buffet for the neighborhood mosquitoes.

Olivia loves the outdoors, even when it’s not so pleasant, so I relish any opportunity to actually enjoy some outdoor playtime with her (as opposed to, in August, when I’m sweating, swatting bugs away, and plotting ways to coax her back inside).

Her newest outdoor hobby is collecting acorns that have fallen from the live oaks in our front yard.

“I found a green one!” she announces, holding it high above her head. “It’s pretty.”

“It is,” I agree.

“I’m going put it with the other ones. Be right back!” she calls out excitedly.

Olivia runs over to the porch and deposits the acorn onto the table among her impressive collection of roughly 50 acorns. Some are green, others black or brown, but they all share one similarity: each is missing its hat. (Cupule, if I’m being scientific, though I suppose “hat” would be an erroneous descriptor since the cupule refers to the base of the acorn. But I digress). I quickly discover that fully intact acorns are hard to come by. The cupule appears to attach to the nut about as securely as one’s hat attaches to the head. See? There you have it. Cupule = Hat. They likely disconnect immediately upon impact with the ground, even a soft bed of grass. I make it my mission to gather as many of these rare treasures as I can find. Upon realizing my excitement over each discovery of a fully hatted acorn, Olivia invents a new game whereby she intercepts the nut and immediately de-hats it, amid my pleas for mercy, all while wearing an adorably mischievous grin.

“Look, Olivia! I found one still wearing his hat!” I dangle it by its stem and hold it out toward her. I might as well be taunting a tiger with a raw steak. She rushes toward me.

“Oh, let me see!” She takes it, grinning, and yanks off the hat. “I did it,” she teases.

“No! You little rat!” I cry out in pretend anger. As she bursts into giggles, I snatch her and playfully pull her to the ground, tickling her ribs. “Oh, I can’t believe you took his hat, you little stinker!”

We repeat this scenario several times. It never gets old.

On the return walk from one of our acorn deposit trips to the porch, we become distracted by a lovely red and yellow leaf that had found itself on the sidewalk. Olivia picks it up, marvels briefly at its beauty, and then proceeds to tear it into tens of tiny pieces. Instead of returning to the acorn collection zone, she veers off to another area of the yard and begins to examine the myriad leaves scattered across the grass. She makes her selection. It’s small, brown and crunchy, having fallen from its branch some time ago.

“I’m going to crush you, leaf,” Olivia says.

I answer on behalf of the leaf in a small, squeaky voice. “No! Don’t crush me, please!”

Olivia promptly reduces the leaf to crumbs.

I pick up another leaf, also small, brown and long since dead. “I’m just going for a walk in the grass,” I squeak, teasingly moving the leaf across the yard, toward Olivia. “Ho hum, what a lovely day.” Then I stop abruptly. “Uh-oh! There’s Olivia the Leaf-Crusher!” I squeak anxiously. “Aah!!” I make the leaf turn and run away, hurriedly hiding itself under my bent knee.

Olivia giggles as she approaches. “Come here, leaf,” she says softly. “You don’t have to be afraid. I want to play with you.”

“Oh, okay.” I bring the leaf out from hiding. She takes it and cradles it against her tummy for a few seconds and then holds it out and starts to tear it. “No! You tricked me!,” I squeak in agony.

“Yes, I did,” Olivia answers matter-of-factly.

I grab another nearby leaf and animate it like the previous one. “Oh, no! It’s Olivia the Leaf-crusher!”

“Come here, leaf. I won’t hurt you,” Olivia promises.

“Are you sure?” I ask, in my leaf voice. “I heard you tricked my friend.”

“No, I just tricked that other leaf,” she replies, genuinely.

“Oh, okay.”

Olivia keeps her word, helping her new leaf friend walk about the yard for a bit. But this leaf, too, is in a delicate state, having turned brown and lost its pliability. When Olivia accidentally tears it, she is sorry immediately. I can read the disappointment on her face. Luckily, I have an idea.

“You know what, Olivia? I bet we can fix your leaf with some tape. Do you want to try it?” I ask.

“Yes,” she answers, nodding her head enthusiastically.

We go inside, and she watches as I carefully tape the leaf back together. When I’m finished, I hand it to her and declare, “It’s fixed.”

“Hooray! You fixed him!” she exclaims, prancing away with her new and improved (now adorned) leaf. “I’m sorry I broke you,” she tells it. “I’ll take good care of you.” She turns to me. “Mommy, he’s all better now! So much better now! And now I can dance with him!”

I smile back at her, glad for moments like these, when the littlest nothing can bring her such joy.

Olivia holds her leaf high in the air as she twirls around gleefully and sings, “You’re so much better now!”

***