Sometimes, my kids argue. They may argue without words, but they argue. Over toys, over who gets to sit in Mom’s lap, over eating each other’s food, and being in each other’s space. There are some thoughts that I’m sure are going through their heads:
That toy is mine, so you can’t play with it. That toy is yours, so you can play with it, and so can I when I want to.
If he gets to eat spaghetti for lunch, then I don’t want the PBJ I asked for.
I woke up my brother so we could play together, but after five minutes I’m tired of him.
Why does she get to take things from me, but she yells “NO!” if I take something from her?
But sometimes, they’ll have fun together. EK crawls around chasing J to pretend like she’s a baby, too. J laughs whenever EK laughs. J does something silly, and EK automatically copies him. They sit across from each other at the table at breakfast and sing songs. I can’t even describe how much it warms my heart to hear giggles and squealing throughout the house as they play together.
The other night after dinner was one of those times. We’ve got a sofa in our kitchen (something we saw when we visited when looking to buy the house, and then wrote into the contract because we loved it) and it’s a place of hang time before or after dinner most nights. On this particular night, we postponed the usual clean up to watch the kids squeal and throw pillows. Here’s a glimpse:
These are the times that give me hope in their friendship throughout life, and the times that I’m glad their ages are close, even though sometimes I’m swamped in their messes and laundry and tears. I remember why they’re my favorite people to be with and how much I adore them.