I thought Lucy was heading down to play (“Mumma, I need my PI-vacy some days, please.”), but suddenly her hand darts through the small swinging cat door at the top of the basement stairs.

Startled, Alice drops the xylophone mallet and falls onto her tush with a padded plop.

Then she starts giggling. A “huh-ha-huh-ha!” belly laugh that ends with the distinct slapping noise only chubby baby hands clapping together can make.

“Peek-a-boo, Alice Lynne!” Lucy sing songs from her crouch on the top step behind the door. She pushes her hand in and out of the square opening left behind by the previous owners, each time grabbing Alice’s foot and sending her into peals of laughter. Lucy’s Eddie Murphy-esque snickers start up.

Just this week the girls are starting to play together. A little. Lucy still bellows that she does not like her baby sister, does not like Alice touching her toys, does not like green eggs and ham and Alice, but these spells are starting to creep into the repertoire of their relationship.

I freeze while unloading the dishwasher, plate in hand. I stop and try and sear this to my memory. I watch. I don’t want to grab the camera. I don’t want to disturb them in this private sister moment that makes the fighting and grabbing and refereeing worth it.

Alice tilts to the side, trying to peer into the opening at her sister. The hard plastic door pops open once again, this time scraping the side of Alice’s cheek. Lucy takes off down the stairs, a muffled, “Sorry, Baby Alice! Sorry, Mumma!” trailing behind her in the red-faced silence of Alice’s impending wail.

The moment is over. But it was there, briefly, and it will help us make it through another day and not sell my babies on eBay like I threaten to daily.

For that, I am grateful.

Possibly related posts:

1. Making my day, twice
2. Shut
3. Surreal
4. At least they’re sharing
5. On the potty