Soren waited seven years for a brother.
Soren and Dave rejoice at the new member to their ranks.
Of course, he loved him immediately.
“Playing” with newborn Linus
He started right away putting them in matching outfits.
But there wasn’t a lot of brotherly give-and-take involved.
Today he came to me very excited and told me he’d made up a game that Linus could play with him. Linus would alternate tapping Soren’s one knee or the other and Soren would move that knee up and down. Then they do some version of “slap my hand” where there is a winner and loser.
“Mom, come look at our game! It’s finally fun to have a brother!”
These days, my mom takes her coffee black. I’m not that mature yet.
I still take my coffee exactly as my mom did when I was growing up: cream, no sugar. I remember the ritual every day. She would drop the cream into her clear mug of coffee, and we’d both watch the white liquid dance and swirl. My mom never used a stirrer or spoon. It was too fun to watch the coffee as it mixed itself – or better yet, didn’t. We both admired it when the cream would settle in the bottom half of the cup.
I always try to keep a clear mug in my cabinet. I could never find one exactly like the one my mom used to have, but it still brings back fond memories. This morning, my 8 year old Jireh poured my coffee and we both watched and admired as the cream swirled and layered.
Hard to believe, but there it is.
Invariably as I stand at the stove I will be approached five or six times with the question:
“What’s for dinner?”
“Food,” I say.
“What kind of food?”
“The kind that you eat.”
“I mean, what’s in it?
“Meat. And some vegetables.”
Every night.
It probably seems rude to you, huh? But I have my reasons.
Let’s say they are unhappy about the answer. Now I have wailing, weeping and gnashing of teeth. They don’t WANT that kind of dinner. YUCKY, DISGUSTING, UGLY dinner. They are never going to eat again. They only want something yummy. Blah, blah, blah. They go through the house crying about their fate. They lament the fact that they have never had even a morsel of anything delicious while living in this house. They discuss all the places they have heard of, or perhaps even been to, where acceptable food has been provided to their ailing, withering tastebuds. They hurl epithets at the meal, saying that it is worse than anything they could think of – even liver! They speak longingly of such ethereal fantasy places as “Aunty Beccah’s House” and “Grandma’s House” and “Mormor’s House,” where they would never be served anything so awful. They plan aloud to leave and move in with neighbors who would certainly share their culinary preferences. *
OK, now let’s say the kids are happy with what I tell them. Now I have to deal with an ear-splitting “YAY!” and the news travels on wings throughout the house. “We’re having XXXX!!” must be repeated far and wide, in louder and louder tones, to everyone individually. This usually wakes the baby, whose lovely nap is the only reason I’m able to prepare dinner the first place. Nice. When they’re done shouting from the rooftops, they all traipse in and step on my feet to try to get a good look at the yumminess they crave. If I can manage to get them appointed to jobs that keep them far enough away from me that I can actually open a drawer or turn around without elbow-thwacking someone or stepping on a toe, I still need to hear about twenty seven bajillion times, “When are we eating? When will dinner be ready? Why isn’t Papi home yet?”
And then there’s the matter of changing tastes. Just when I am so sure that I have created the perfect meal that is a crowd-pleaser, one they have all claimed is their favoritest, most deliciousest meal in the entire universe, and Mommy can you make this every day? I feel confident enough to announce or unveil the meal, and someone (or two or four) has decided that actually, they never liked this, and they don’t prefer any, thank you.
Sigh.
So, rude? Yeah, I can see that. But I’m still not telling.
