tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2309801433272440943.post-89326443880385595282008-01-04T11:10:00.000Z2008-01-04T20:01:01.378ZI am upstairs tapping at the computer. My daughter is nearby, sitting on the carpet. She has collected a number of her toys and dolls around her and is gesticulating and talking in a hushed voice. I turn my head slightly and listen as she leans close to one of the dolls. She is talking to her about bedtimes and eating tea and being good. She strokes a dress here and pats some hair into place there. I can just hear what she is saying but not every word. I love to watch her caring for all her little inanimate toys. <br /><br />“Who are they?” I ask, pointing to some dolls near her.<br /><br />“They are my children.”<br /><br />“And those too?” <br /><br />“No, those two are having a playdate” she says. “They’re both boys. That one’s a bit older though, because he was born on Christmas Day.” <br /><br />“Oh, like Jesus?” I ask.<br /><br />“No daddy” she says, smiling indulgently. “He’s called Tom.”<br /><br />She tucks them up under a little blanket. They look loved and cared for and somehow happier than usual. I thought my daughter had an imaginary sister. In fact she has a whole extended family.Stay at home dadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07943310521217164291noreply@blogger.com