He’s My Brother
These two had it out last night.
Like brothers have been known to do.
It was over an iPad.
There was a truck involved too.
Lots of screaming and wrestling.
They were eventually separated.
One was put in the bath and told me the whole story, nonverbally of course. He asked for hugs and kisses as his alligator tears filled the tub.
The other one, the tough guy, he didn’t need a hug or a kiss. But he did tell, and by that I mean yell, his side of the story.
As bedtime rolled around, the younger one came downstairs and asked to sleep with his older brother.
I looked at him squarely and reminded him that just 20 minutes earlier he had nothing but hate for him.
Sheepishly, with tears in his eyes he said, ‘but mama, that’s over now. He’s my brother. I always sleep with my brother. It’s my job.’
And the older one welcomed him with open arms, even patting the pillow when the younger one peeked his head in.
There is something about these two. I used to wonder how it would turn out. I used to cry and worry and stress. And just look, it’s already better than I could have imagined.
They don’t need words. Not them.
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