Emergency

Youngest comes tearing into the kitchen.

"Mommy, mommy, we have to go to the hostable!!!"

Knowing this child's history, I drop everything, picturing the worst. I turn around a do my quick mental check: no blood. Good. She's clearly lucid. Good. "Oh God," I think "it must be her sister."

By this point Youngest has reached me and pulls on my arm.

"Come, mommy, quick!!!"

She pulls me into the living room. There, in front of her dollhouse, we find what looks like the scene of a dreadful accident. Three dollhouse inhabitants, without clothes, lie sprawling. Their wooden bodies contorted, their pipecleaner arms and legs sticking out at unnatural angles.

I'm finally catching on. Stifling my urge to throttle the child for giving me such a fright, I ask in the sweetest voice I can muster:

"What is going on, honey?"

Youngest looks at me earnestly and explains:

"We have to take these dolls to the hostable. Their legs have come loose."