Well, forget everything I wrote in that post (that's actually a pretty good rule of thumb for everything I write, because it would appear that I live my life in the same way that I garden: Try this and that and then something else and then something else else until one of those things finally works. This means I am learning as I go, which means I am almost constantly screwing up, which is fine, except that I have a blog where I can chronicle those screw-ups without the benefit of hindsight or perspective. So... yeah. Take everything I say with a whole tumbler-full of salt, okay? Super.). (I'm beginning to think I have an addiction to parenthetical statements. Some post soon I am going to force myself to not use a single parenthesis, which might mean I get through a post without veering so far off course that I have to go back and see where the heck I was going with this or that particular sentence in the first place. Today is not that day.).
Okay, new rule for the rest of today, NO MORE PARENTHESES. Where was I? Oh, yes- you should be forgetting everything I said in the last post about pitying Caedmon, because I've decided Atticus, our middle child, is the one you should actually feel sorry for.
Saturday we went to visit Derek's parents' to celebrate his Dad's birthday. We hiked, we gardened, we put up a bunch of fence, we ate delicious ice cream (I KNOW, OKAY, I KNOW- but I just have to tell you that I had cherry limeade soft serve ice cream, and it was so refreshing, so creamy, and while Becky and I were discussing the merits of this restaurant's ice cream, she mentioned that she thought the reason it was so good was because it "isn't too sweet, isn't cloying." Cloying- does anyone else just love it to absolute pieces when someone uses the exact right word for the situation or feeling or ice cream you're currently experiencing? Because I so, so do. Okay, now I'm really done with parentheses. Really.), then we packed up our dirty, tired, sugar-stuffed children into the car to head for home.
Atticus got stuck in the middle- something that rarely happens, as arriving at our destination with all offspring still in possession of all four of their limbs is one of our family's silly little rules- and about 30 minutes into the drive he fell asleep.
You know what it's like to fall asleep in the car, right? You either do the horrible head-bobbing thing that cruelly half-wakes you up every 35 seconds, or you ever so slowly lean to the side, because like advanced trigonometry, gravity is hard. (And if trig is easy for you, just don't even talk to me, okay? We're not friends.) Now, you would think, with three- and eight- years of stellar parenting in their respective pasts, Caedmon and Adelaide would do the loving, sweet, supportive thing and actually physically support their dear five-year-old brother as he attempted to rest his gigantic weary head against one of them.
Instead, I turned around just as Atticus began an unconscious lean against Caedmon, and witnessed Caedmon digging one of his elbows into Atticus's temple and angrily driving Atticus away from what was obviously space only for three-year-old's and over to Adelaide's side.
|Post-brotherly shove. Atticus didn't even wake up.|
And was there any fond gentleness or mercy to be found in sisterly quarters?
Nay. Not a crumb of compassion for her little brother. She even stopped reading her book to avoid being touched, and that book is amazing (Fever 1793- read it, read it, read it).
I won't even talk about how I'm 80% sure that physical touch is Atticus's love language.