December 6 - Maggie and the Windows

"Who's gonna wash the windows?!"
She was hysterical. Spit exploded out of her mouth and hung in a string from her lower lip. "Who's gonna wash the windows?!"
"Maggie," we told her. "Calm down."
"But what about the windows!?" She was on the verge of tears.
"It's OK," her dad, my brother, said. "I'll wash them."
"But how can you wash the windows?! You don't have any hands!"
And she was right. He didn't. They'd been replaced by two smoothed over nubs where his wrists had just been. His watch slipped off and fell onto the grass.
My sister-in-law Jeanne stepped up. "That's fine, Maggie. Daddy will find his hands later, right? In the meantime, I can wash the windows with the power washer."
Maggie looked around frantically. What was she talking about, power washer? Jeanne picked up the spray nozzle and shot a stream of soapy water toward the windows. Maggie's eyes locked onto it.
"But it shoots ants!"
Jeanne released the trigger immediately, but not soon enough. Thousands of ants hit the window at once and then started crawling down to the mulch and bushes below.
That left me.
"Maggie, don't worry. The windows will be fine. See? It's a sunny day. See how shiny and sparkly they are?"
And she looked at the windows and soon became transfixed by them, like she often does.
"Now, don't you want to go to Lego Land?"
She looked over at me and nodded.
"Yeah, so do we," I said.
She looked over at her parents. Jeanne was rubbing the nub where Bob's right hand had been. They nodded encouragingly.
"And I think your daddy wants to drive," I said and then looked over at Bob. "Don't you?"
He nodded.
"Do you think maybe you could help him find his hands first, though? He might need those if he's going to drive."
She looked at me like I was the densest person on the planet. "Daddy has hands, silly!"
And he did, of course. Maggie didn't catch her dad mouthing 'thank you' to me as he rubbed his hands together.
"Oh," I said. "So he does. So then we're ready. Do you have your bag?"
"Uh huh."
"Are your shoes tied?"
"Uh huh."
She was perking up with each question.
"And are you ready to go to Lego Land?"
"Uh huh!"
"Great, then let's go! And I promised we'll take care of those windows first thing when we get back!" As soon as I started that sentence I was powerless to stop it or steer it away toward safer ground. The damning words rolled off my tongue as if in slow motion, and Bob and Jeanne all but screamed, 'NO!!'
I'd blown it, of course I'd blown it. The delicate calm that we'd carefully built up like a teetering, fragile Jenga tower was knocked to smithereens, and we would have to pick up the pieces and start again. She screamed. Bob and Jeanne ran their fingers through their hair, and the three of us looked at each other to decide which of us would try this time.
Of course we weren't taking her to the real Lego Land. That's just what we called my house. We can't take her anywhere in public, much less someplace like Lego Land. She's an obsessive compulsive four-year-old with autistic tendencies of some sort and--I can't believe I'm writing this--the ability to make her imagination manifest. All of which means she can be a bit to deal with.
The weird stuff had always been going on, even when she was an infant. Her crib would suddenly be lined with lactating breasts. The animals in her mobile would come to life and put on plays for her. When she started learning how to talk and experiment with language, the craziness shifted into overdrive, but at least then we were able to confirm that 'it' was coming from her.
By the way, we still have no idea where 'it' came from, nor do we know who we can talk to about her. Mostly we try to reason with her, stay on her good side, and hope she settles down with age.
Her parents are already dreading her teenage years, which is something I'd rather not think about.