The pseudo Hargreeves household has had a very busy weekend. With Allison gone for a shoot and Patrick off on a business meeting, the whole house has been nothing but one giant play place for Claire and Klaus. He makes sure to fill her days to the brim with activities, especially early on, so she doesn’t miss her parents too terribly much. From swimming to tea parties, from coloring to zoo visits, fashion shows to story time, they while away the time laughing.
Sunday arrives slowly, with a lazy sunrise peeking between the shades and blinds. The kitchen turns into a war zone, flour and syrup on every possible surface tiny hands could manage to reach in their quest to make the perfect tower of french toast. Dishes left behind in a haphazard pile, they turned their attention instead to coloring and creating paper crowns and jewelry from construction paper glued together. A package of plastic jewels sits overturned on the dining room table, globs of tacky, nearly dried Elmer’s glue stuck to its surface. From paper crowns and rings and other accoutrements Claire insisted they watch a princess movie to match their princess attire. (Klaus, of course, dons the crown the little girl made for him and even steals some of Allison’s makeup so that they both have appropriately made up princess faces— at Claire’s insistence.)
So it’s early evening when they finally wind down, and anyone roaming the house might hear the final notes of Cinderella echoing through the house. And where one might think they’d find a rapt audience, little eyes glued to the TV in wonder, they’re left instead with Klaus sprawled on the floor, hair a mess of wild, loose braids topped with a construction paper crown that matches his electric blue eyeshadow. Look closer still and there’s a young girl, maybe 5 years old at best nestled into his chest, with wild, unruly tufts of hair done up in bejeweled barrettes, her makeup just as outlandish as his own.
They sleep soundly, his arms around her small frame, a throw from the couch tucked around her. The little one drools into his shirt, her mouth open as she sleeps, not unlike her Uncle who happens to be snoring ever so slightly, settled into a deep, comfortable sleep. Seems like he forgot to set an alarm.
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Sunday arrives slowly, with a lazy sunrise peeking between the shades and blinds. The kitchen turns into a war zone, flour and syrup on every possible surface tiny hands could manage to reach in their quest to make the perfect tower of french toast. Dishes left behind in a haphazard pile, they turned their attention instead to coloring and creating paper crowns and jewelry from construction paper glued together. A package of plastic jewels sits overturned on the dining room table, globs of tacky, nearly dried Elmer’s glue stuck to its surface. From paper crowns and rings and other accoutrements Claire insisted they watch a princess movie to match their princess attire. (Klaus, of course, dons the crown the little girl made for him and even steals some of Allison’s makeup so that they both have appropriately made up princess faces— at Claire’s insistence.)
So it’s early evening when they finally wind down, and anyone roaming the house might hear the final notes of Cinderella echoing through the house. And where one might think they’d find a rapt audience, little eyes glued to the TV in wonder, they’re left instead with Klaus sprawled on the floor, hair a mess of wild, loose braids topped with a construction paper crown that matches his electric blue eyeshadow. Look closer still and there’s a young girl, maybe 5 years old at best nestled into his chest, with wild, unruly tufts of hair done up in bejeweled barrettes, her makeup just as outlandish as his own.
They sleep soundly, his arms around her small frame, a throw from the couch tucked around her. The little one drools into his shirt, her mouth open as she sleeps, not unlike her Uncle who happens to be snoring ever so slightly, settled into a deep, comfortable sleep. Seems like he forgot to set an alarm.