This morning I woke up at 6:30 or so and lay in bed, thinking about things. I couldn't really get back to sleep so I picked up one of the magazines that was nearby, a literary magazine. (Website not updated yet, but when it is, I expect one of my columns to be there.) I heard the kids get up one by one, but didn't hear any thumping, crashing, or arguing, so I stayed upstairs and read a few stories. They were really good! Not just the stories -- my kids! When I went downstairs (we had to get ready for church and a very long day which would include a Chuck E. Cheese party, which is a story in itself) (actually, church is a story in itself...kind of hard today but I am sure dragging the three of them there is the right thing to do), my middle son had got breakfast for his younger brother. They were all sitting together in the living room (they had eaten at the breakfast bar even though I know they wouldd prefer to eat in front of the TV).
The thing about brotherly love, though, is that it is sometimes displayed in ways that I do not think are loving; that certainly most would not think are loving. Taunting, teasing, poking, outright hitting, name-calling, gimme-that-it's-mine (even if they don't want it). It's tiring. Exhausting. By the end of this day, I had no energy left (I was wondering if I should take more vitamins), and I was back to asking the boys to do for each other. Oldest, get your brother an applesauce while you're up finishing that hot dog (which you must do before you qualify for dessert). "I care about your nutrition, honey." We all watched a few innings of the Red Sox after I gave them haircuts (outside).
The parts I left out were Chuck E. Cheese, the soccer field (random stop on the way home to kick balls at middle son who is being cultivated as a keeper, where we wound up watching some high school games, but the arguing over the sunglasses that ensured necessitated leaving) and then my oldest and me walking the dog. Both of us were begging him to poop, we were tired and sick of walking. Heat wave.
Which brings me to the grand finale, arguing over the fans. God help me.
My brown dog, part one
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