Looking for balloons

I'm putting Tahlia to bed. She is wearing new purple pajamas that make her look like a little princess. They really don't make her look like a princess, but there is a little crown on the front of them and so I've told her they make her look like a little princess.

We finish reading her books for the night and have turned off the light to cuddle and tell her first story. This is one of my favorite parts of the night time routine.

I'm about to start the story -- per Tahlia's request, it is going to be about "Tahlia on the little swing, and Miriam on the big swing, and all of a sudden Miriam and Savanna begin crying." It is an interesting story.

Anyway, as I start telling it, "One day, Tahlia was on the . . ." She interrupts me.

"Daddy, why Tahlia go like this?" She has her palm pressed firmly to her forehead. I have a sudden thought that she is not well.

"Tahlia, are you ok?"

"Yeah Daddy. Why Tahlia go like this?" She is sitting up now, looking at me with her little hand on her head.

For the life of me, I don't know what she is talking about. I'm trying to have her relax, and I know that not understanding what she is asking about will not relax her. Luckily, recently when we have been having a hard time understanding about what she is asking, she is very patient with us. "I don't know Tahlia. Why are you doing that?"

"When we saw the ballons, I put my hand like this. Why?"

---

It flashes into my head, a fragment of a memory, a shadow of a sight. Earlier in the evening, we were returning from Boston Market from dinner with Opa. I was driving with the kids. Not an unusual sight in our city, but one that is always loved is the hot air balloons that frequent our skies. As I turned down one of the streets to return home, I noticed, out of my rear view mirror two balloons in the distance. I knew that Tahlia would be ecstatics about them, but I don't want to let her know about them too soon as there is the possibility that they will never be in her visual range. I hedge my bets.

"Tahlia, we might see some balloons."

She begins looking around. "Where Daddy?"

"I'm not sure you'll see them. Maybe."

We keep driving. We turn another corner. And another. And then the last.

And there they are. Two beautiful balloons floating just above the tree line.

"There they are honey."

"Where Daddy."

"There, do you see them?"

And there is the memory. Just before she says something, I catch a glimpse of her with her hand on her head looking through the window into the evening sky. It didn't register with me what she was doing, but now, when she asks me about her hand, it suddenly all makes sense.

In the car, she lets me know that she does see the balloons, and we return home.

---

Back in her room this whole memory flashes back to me. I realize that what she is attempting to do is what she most likely has seen Mommy and me do a hundred times when we are in the bright sun outside and there is something in the distance we want to see. What she is trying to do is shield her eyes so that she can see the balloons, only, she didn't realize that she needed to lift her palm away from her forehead.

Now, in full realization, I quickly, and calmly explain "Why she's doing this."

And we continue with the night time routine. I'll make the last story about balloons.