He came to me one morning, his puffed up chest swollen with pride and confidence. He told me that he was a big boy and as much as it pains me to admit this reality, I agreed with him. He was no longer my baby. His four pound frame has grown into a three year old body and with this metamorphosis comes a new understanding of himself and of all the things he can do.
Tripping and stuttering over his speech he tried to find his way through the tongue twisting minefields of the English language and I waited patiently for him to continue on with his story. In so many words he told me that the night before when he and Edie were asleep, her crying had roused him from his own peaceful dreams and so he'd taken care of her. My own chest swelled as I listened to his heroic account of rescue, and I couldn't help but picture his tale as his broken words weaved a tapestry before me...
The bitter taste of fear, the deafening thud of her heart, her eyes wide with terror - Edie would have cried out, whimpering in the pitch black of night. Then suddenly from the shadows, a voice would have broken through. His voice, the one which berates her all day, and tells her what to do, the one that yells at her and calls her names - reached her in that deepest dark, and soothed her quaking presence. His whispered assurances weren't enough to quell the tempest which had begun so he invited her to sleep next to him. She stumbled towards him, and crawled haphazardly under his covers. The offer to share his space, bed, and blanket, no doubt caught her off guard, but she didn't hesitate... Then his arms hugged her tight, her tears dried upon his chest, and both of them tumbled back into a soundless sleep.
"I'm a big brother Mom, I take care of her"
With one bold statement I realize, they aren't just bickering siblings, they are loving ones as well...and maybe just maybe, I'm doing something right.