Siblings

Today's 100 words:

I don't think my son, who will be five soon, remembers a time when his little sister wasn't with him. She was born when he was nearly two and a half, and I remember worrying about how he would react when he met her, but all he did was look at her a bit and go about his playing. Now they're very close and play together daily--sometimes taking a break to fight, of course. I'm glad they have each other. My sister and I are separated by about the same number of years, and we've almost always been close.

An unfortunate tradition

Today's 100 words:

 

It occurred to me when I looked at the date this morning that the countdown to Christmas has truly begun, and I'm starting to feel a bit of panic. When my sister and I were on Facebook last night, chatting as we each wrote Christmas cards, she told me that she had finished all her shopping last Monday and asked if I was done yet. My answer? "Hahahahaha. No." It seems to be my (unfortunate) tradition that I finish most of my Christmas preparations at the last minute, so I fully expect to be buying and wrapping presents right up until the moment Santa arrives.

Mr. Tree

Going home always takes me back to my childhood, reminding me of things I haven't thought about in years. I wrote the following brief memory on August 21 as I thought about some of the ways my sister and I used to pass the time while we were growing up:

When my sister and I were kids, a group of trees stood in our front yard, and my sister, for some reason known only to her, called the configuration "Mr. Tree." The trees were growing in a square, one at each corner, forming a room that we would use as our secret clubhouse--although I do recall my sister telling her classmate across the street about this supposedly secret place. Once we tried to use sticks and branches to build up Mr. Tree's walls, but the whole process was too tedious, and we gave up after only a short time.

"My mama!"

Yesterday, as I was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall and watching my husband shave, my eighteen-month-old daughter ran over to me, threw her arms around my neck, and said, "My mama!" An answering yell and the sound of feet running on a hardwood floor followed, and my three-year-old son appeared, pushed his sister out of the way, hugged me, and exclaimed, "No. My mama!" They proceeded to "fight" over me like that for quite a while, and their little squabble reminded me of growing up with my sister and how we would always scream "my commercial" anytime an ad appeared on television during Saturday morning cartoons. The object is different, of course, but the passionate cry is the same: She's (or It's) mine!

I love how much my kids love me right now. I'm their world, and they trust me and depend on me to take care of them. I don't feel at all deserving of their love most days; sometimes I'll think, "Oh, you poor kids, having to grow up with a mother like me." But they love me, in spite of the times when I'm crabby and yell about insignificant things. They love me even though I make them do things they don't always like, such as eating their vegetables and going to bed on time. They love me the same as I love them,  unconditionally, in spite of my many failures. They're my children! And they're everything to me.