July 28, 2004

I Get an Award!

A bunch of roses. A spa treatment. At least something. I think I deserve it, and I'm demanding recognition!

Yesterday, as I have said, I was fasting. For some reason I was hit particularly bad by the fast this year and for a good bit of the afternoon I was stretched out on the couch feeling somewhat dizzy and faint.

My sons, once we were passed midday and there was some relaxation of the rules (frivolity is frowned upon as the day is a day of mourning) tried to distract themselves from their hunger by playing a video game.

Along comes my wonderful, unstoppable, five year old, rushing over to the screen to watch the boys play.

And I know what is going to happen.
T will comment. And comment. And comment.
One comment after the other; who's that? Who are you being M? Why did you do that?

The boys see red. They gently ask their sister not to make comments. They politely ask their sister not to make comments. They firmly ask their sister not to make comments. They beg their sister not to make comments. They scream at her to shut up alread!

Still she makes comments.

Usually I'm not just hanging around but busy elsewhere. However, this time I was on the couch, and barely able to do even something as simple as read anyway. After the first grumblings of discord T runs to me and begs me to tell the boys to "let her talk".

"I'll tell you what." I squeak out, hoping to forestall the usual bad feelings and inevitable war. "Come tell me your comments. Whisper!"

"okay!" she is delighted.

And for the next 30 minutes:

Slap of little feet against the floor. "M is being Mario!" (stage whisper into my ear.) Punctuate the remark by smacking the foot rest of the couch several times. Slap of little feet against the floor back to the boys. 10 secs.
Slap of feet, "B is green Yoshi" smack the foot rest. Run back to boys.
Slap of feet. "M is dead!" smack the foot rest. Run back to the boys.
Over and over and over again.

And I managed not to scream. I didn't tear out my hair. I even managed to make vague, appreciative responses and smile through the whole ordeal; never uttering a single complaint.

I think I deserve something.
Maybe a "I'm surviving my five year old" t-shirt?


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