This morning, I woke to the sound of my son's voice.
Upon tiptoeing to his room, I found that his little sister was cuddled up next to him in bed. The blanket was being happily shared, and she listened, enraptured as he read aloud to her. It was a moment of pure sweetness.
Which is why I bolted downstairs as quickly and quietly as possible. (I got to drink my coffee alone!)
Then I prepared breakfast and called upstairs. The padding feet were quick to respond, and they fell upon the toast with the fury of ravenous children.
"Did you read to your sister this morning?" I asked, smiling down on my eldest.
"Yeff," my son answered around a mouthful of Raisin Bran.
"And what book were you reading?"
"It was about the Sill Wear."
"The... what?"
"The SILL WEAR, Mommy."
"Uh-huh."
I didn't question him further. Asking him to repeat twice apparently insults his status as a Reader Who Doesn't Need Help, so I let it go and finished prepping the bags for a day at homeschool co-op. But when I dashed upstairs to help in the search for a Sock That No One Can Find But Mom, I glanced at the book lying on the bed.
It was a Magic Treehouse Book. Awww.
Civil War on Sunday.
Uh....
Less Awwww. More Errrrr.
I think I'll lay out "Amelia Bedelia" for tomorrow.
My son made a friend at the park. They occupied the swings for half an hour, talking about video games and how the other boy was three years older, but Spiderman was going to turn six, and THEN seven, and THEN he would almost be eight. And I was grateful to the older boy for nodding and accepting this explanation without asserting his dominance. It's always a pleasure to meet a kind and wise eight year old.
Then Spiderman asked, "Where do you live?"
The boy replied, "Over there. On Fox Glen Drive."
They swung gently back and forth.
Then the boy asked, "Where do you live?"
"North America," Spiderman answered promptly.
I'm glad he doesn't give our address out to strangers, but I hope it's not the first stages of protective paranoia. If he's preparing for a life of avoiding the CIA, he's off to a good start. I'd like to see Jason Bourne track down that address.
Spiderman (age 5) and Princess (age 2) sat down to dinner.
There was Quiche, which was not in favor, Cornbread, which was almost edible, and green beans, which were the greatest thing to happen to a dinner plate in forever. We eat a lot of green beans. And broccoli. They're on the "I'm-not-up-to-fighting-through-dinner" foods. We don't know why.
Anyway, the kids sat down to dinner because Daddy wasn't home yet and Mommy was getting ready for piano lessons. (I know, I know - the shattering of the nuclear family began when we stopped sitting together for meals. Some nights, we have a real dinner with manners and everything. Honest.) And they whined about the menu, and sighed when there was a promise of dessert - because that dessert was forever unattainable while a slice of quiche stood in the way.
And while I prepared for lessons (wardrobe change,checking teeth for green beans, etc.), I warned my son not to whine. So he did.
So I sent him upstairs to "think carefully" about his next move.
After five minutes, he recanted the whine and promised faithfully to be sweet. He returned to the dinner table. And shrieked.
"MOMMIEEEEEE!" he cried. "MOMMIEEEE!" (My children accent the last syllable. The long 'e' sound is easier to shriek than the short 'o' vowel.) I came to his aid, expecting blood.
"Mommy!" he accused, finger pointed at his little sister. "She took my cornbread!"
The princess paused, mid-chew. Angelic eyes swiveled from the big brother to me. She swallowed, then tottered to his side, cornbread held out (dropping crumbs over the freshly swept floor). "Here," she said, "Here you go."
Her brother took the piece back, pacified, and placed it safely on his plate (where he was certainly not going to eat it). He said, in tones of grateful relief, "Thank you."
The Princess beamed. "MOMMIEEE!" she cried, delighted with herself. She ran to me with a triumphant grin. "Mommy! I SHARED!"
We're getting there...
