I feel as if I would be doing a great disservice to my little collection of words here if I neglected to share these tales, because this is the place where my stories live, safely in time, phrases and sentiments, a time capsule of moments adorned with punctuation. Likewise, in sharing them, I incriminate myself with the levels of brutal honesty that others might simply ignore and most will surely find amusing. Of course, I mean my mother.
But a good story is a good story and surely, I must continue typing.
The daughter of this family, affectionately known as Wild Eyes the Brave, has stepped up her game in the name of uncharted territory. At two and half, she is emotions that spill over and overwhelm without warning, she is a mushy, melt in your arms bundle of love, and she is a wildfire of daring, fierce instigation.
Help. Us. Lord.
The resident twinkle in her eye, it knows absolutely every miniscule way of interfering with her older brother’s world. Even the slightest sound that will always, always send him over the edge. There’s this chomping sound a person makes when they pretend to eat something and he just will not accept the fact that she is NOT eating his robot-block-flying-boat-car or his bear or his pillow or his ear. To date, all of those items are still in tact and uneaten by little sister, part best friend, part public enemy number one. I will inform you of any changes.
This is the part where my mother’s face is now overflowing with tears of laughter, because the saying the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, you know, damn clichés. Meet Queen Instigator, hi. And my brother’s begin to feel vindication for the endless fights that I would prompt and quickly call for help, because daddy will 9 times out of 10 side with sweet little girl over mean, rough brothers. You know how that games plays out.
Sister is a force.
Part of me is amazed at her skills while the rest quivers in terror. I saw this early on in those wild eyes. I always knew we were in trouble.
Today, she slowly inched her bottom down the hill and ran down the sidewalk away from us, laughing the whole way. The resident spark of ornery glowing brightly. One might argue that they do if for the chase and that is most likely true, but others might also determine that a fearless two year old inches from the road is not really time for psychological games. I’m on the latter team. Sister made it five houses down by the time I left my seat, descended two flights of stairs and snatched her up. She felt it a great injustice that she was thus confined to the porch and she expressed the injustice with all the drama and zeal one little soul could possibly contain.
Also, I regret to admit that she is just days away from realizing that she can climb out of her crib.
Any moment now… the ice is thinning. These days are fragile, before the great enlightenment. Fragile days.
I won’t resort to comparison at the end of each sentence, but guess who didn’t have interest in running away or destruction or leaving the safety of his bed….right.
Surely, it’s been said by all parents of the human kind, and even the snowflake kind, the uncanny differences of children birthed from the same womb. My evidence here is nothing new, but seriously.
These are fragile days and someone has stepped up her game.