But maybe just a little?

On this warm, sunny Thursday afternoon, Cleo and I read some stories (among which were Sleeping Bobby, a current favorite), tried out a pirate puzzle, shared some mango juice, and headed up the hill to Gilman, to see what their sprawling grounds could offer in the way of fun. I went in summer-professor mode, which in my case means flip flops and a casual collared top; Cleo opted to go in high princess style, with gold shoes, a tiara, and a wonderful silken cape.

During the 5-minute drive, we listened to a segment of Beethoven Lives Upstairs, a clever CD narrative that interweaves the first-person accounts of a young boy frustrated by the eccentric behavior of the composer who rents an apartment above him and his worldly uncle, who recognizes that the behaviors that embarrass and astound the child may be signifiers of Romantic genius, rather than stark madness. In the scene that we heard, a member of the Viennese royal house pays a visit, and is unusually quiet in Beethoven's presence. The boy predictably interprets the silence as a sign of mortification, but the uncle wonders, in a letter to his nephew, if there might be other reasons - respect, perhaps? - for the prince's tempered silence.

And then, after a short trike ride, we were at the swings. Cleo's cape flowed as she hurtled back and forth; nearby, six Gilman boys shot hoops on a diminutive basketball rim. Cleo watched, and then asked to stop - and, when we reached her tricycle, indicated that she wanted to tell me something privately. What is it?, I asked. She sidled up to my lowered ear, and whispered: 'Do you think they were jealous of me?'

Perhaps, Cleo. Perhaps they were so envious, when they saw your cape, that all they think to do, in their addled state, was to take another pointless shot at the rim. Or maybe - just maybe - there was some other reason for their passionate play. Regardless, your cape was lovely, and their play subsuming.