Any time I hear a crash in the next room, I just assume it’s Olive. On most occasions, that assumption is correct.
A few months ago I heard some of the usual banging around near the kitchen and came out to see what she’d done this time. To my surprise, my daughter’s playhouse (which in all honesty is more of a flimsy tent-like structure) had been smooshed down flat as a pancake. And there sat Olive, giving me a wide-eyed stare just before scuttling off into the shadows.
To this day, I’m not quite sure how she pulled it off. Such are the mysteries of Olive.