Hurricane Dora

Hurricane Dora hit Birmingham earlier this week. Well, it hit our house. OK, it hit Dora's bedroom. There were no casualties but the damage was extensive.

All of Dora's toys ended up in the floor along with most of her clothes, a couple of towels, and Dora's ever-present collection of sticks, rocks, and leaves. Dora's belongings spilled out into the hallway as she exercised eminent domain in a land-grab for more play space. Barbie dolls and plastic dinosaurs in the entry foyer were the last straw.

Get busy cleaning that room now, instructed a frazzled Zelda.

Ok, mama, chirped the little one.

Zelda set the kitchen timer for one hour and went about putting away her laundry, as did Lovett. When the timer went off, Zelda checked on Dora's progress.

Only there wasn't any. Zelda couldn't tell that a single item had been moved toward its proper place. She promptly grounded Dora from TV for the rest of the afternoon and restricted her to the main impact zone of the hurricane.

When I walked into the house, Dora tackled me with her usual Papa! and I asked her what she had done with her day.

I cleaned my room, she beamed.

You did! I exclaimed, surveying the damage like a FEMA inspector. Well I would hate to see what it would look like if you hadn't.

Then Zelda filled me in on the day's frustrations with quite a hint that my expected reply was to be more than Gee, Honey, what an exasperating day! So after dinner, on my way out to a meeting, I explained the situation to Dora:

When I get home from my meeting, everything that is still in your floor will be bagged up and taken to the attic. No whining, no complaining, no questions asked. Do you understand?

Yes, Papa, Dora fluttered.

Three hours later my meeting concluded and I began a dread-filled drive home. I walked into the house, peaked into Dora's room, and saw that not a thing had been picked up. She had called my bluff. I was Robert Conrad and Dora had knocked the battery off my shoulder.

So I walked into the pantry, grabbed a handful of garbage bags, and walked into her room. Zelda followed me and she picked up Dora's clothes while I went for the toys. Ten minutes and two trips up the attic stairs later, six garbage bags full of stuffed animals, plastic animals, rocks, doll clothes, toy kitchen utensils, hair bows, necklaces, etc. were stowed in Dora's corner of the attic. I came down the stairs, closed the attic door, and prepared for the protest.

But there wasn't one. No screaming. No tantrums. No whining. I called Dora into the foyer as I tried to analyze her response, or better yet, her lack of response.

I took all those toys up to the attic like I said I would.

Uh-huh.

Don't go up there after them.

OK.

You can play with the toys that are left, but when mama tells you to clean up your room again and you don't, I'll take those up there too. Do you understand?

Yep.

Do you have any questions?

Can I have some ice cream?

I was blown away. Perplexed is such an impotent word to describe my state of mind. I am not a particularly materialistic person, and I was ashamed and appalled by the amount of stuff I had to carry upstairs. Could it be that Dora couldn't cope with it either? That it overwhelmed her and shut her down? Or is she simply obstinate? And if she is, wouldn't she have protested, even a little bit?

I am stumped.

But I can see Dora's carpet now.