After finishing his dinner, Jeremy gets up from the table and walks into the living room.
“Did the maid pick up your dishes?” I ask.
“We don’t have a maid,” he answers.
“Exactly.”
………………………………..
Jackson, after a rowdy night of misbehavior, says to me this morning:
“Mom, I’m sorry.”
“For what?” I inquire.
“For jumping on the couch.”
“And?”
“For getting out of my bed.”
“And?”
“For… I don’t know,” he pauses. “Can I have an iPad for Christmas?”
………………………………..
During last night’s rowdiness, Jeremy was bothered by Jackson’s fit-throwing. He appealed to me on his brother’s behalf.
“He sounds really upset,” says Jeremy as we sit downstairs.
“He is,” I answer.
“But it sounds like torture,” he says.
“Losing stuffed animals for the night is not torture,” I say.
There’s a pause.
“Maybe not to you but it is to us” he says. “I bet that didn’t even happen to Jesus when he was a kid.”