Venora could be any small town in the United States. Stately houses. Manicured lawns. The occasional weed – and that refers to mugs you see grimacing from behind windows with thick curtains too. But no place is perfect.

Venora has four elementary schools, each with merry, if peeling, play structures, made of metal, yet fabulously cool to the touch. Carly wants to walk by Maeve’s house and “pick her up,” then walk to Maeve’s school and play.

But Carly and Maeve are besties, and age four. They don’t really play. They use their together time to irritate each other, testing to see how far each can go before there are tears. And today there ARE tears, from my Carly. She wants to actually play on the playscape, while Maeve has decided that she is “bored.” This results in a playground stalemate and my decision to return Maeve to her home and banish Carly to her bedroom for the dreaded nap.

“You tell me you are not tired,” I say. “But you are crying.”

The imp turns red and stamps her foot. We walk half a mile home and every corner presents another opportunity for me to pretend to be far ahead, but truly slow my pace so that she can fluster and catch up. Which she does, though she wails something awful all the way. And her eyes are red, and her cheeks puffy and streaked with dirt and tears. And her chin – that chin, which used to be my chin but now belongs to someone else – is quivering. And I know she feels bad about crying and complaining, but now it’s too late and we are almost home…and there has been a face or two at a window watching this banshee cry through town, and perhaps pass a judgement or two as well.

Then she holds my hand and I know that all will be well soon. Carly will tell me she is sorry. I, too, will be sorry (though that is something I will keep to myself). And tomorrow, she will ask to visit Maeve again, to go and not-play at the playground.