by guest blogger Susan M.
I laugh at things. A lot. Perhaps more than I should, and these things are often at my children's expense.
I tell stories. A lot of them. Mostly to hide my own fear of how badly I've screwed my kids up, or to illustrate that yes, I do realize how ill-behaved my sweet boy appears to, well, most everyone. A funny story hides a million sins.
But W? Nada. Nothing. Shafted.
It's not that he's not interesting, really. He is a delight, I swear. And funny to beat the band, when he's in a goofy mood, which is often. But as the quiet twin, he often gets overlooked for his oddball brother, who can be infinitely more attention-getting, and not always in a good way.
W has a new habit, which is funny and endearing, but perhaps a little telling as well. When he starts a story, it goes in fits and starts, something like this:
W: "Mom. Mom. Mom. Today in school we... Mom. We just tried... Mom"
I thought, at first, that perhaps his little brain just couldn't get the sentence slowed down enough to get it out. But as I sit and wonder, perhaps he's just trying to make sure I'm still listening?
I had (have?) a New Year's Resolution to write things down. "You should write a book" my neighbor said, after a recounting of F's horrible day, involving the tae kwon do penalty box and some choice tantrum throwing. While those things are funny and memorable, maybe it's the W stories that I need to be sharing.
It's ok, buddy. I hear you.