Poor Grace. All she wants is someone to herd. She’s like an Australian shepherd without a job. She’s a girl without a younger sister to boss around, a babysitter in search of a baby, a bored, bored, bored 7-year old. Bored.
Today she was outside with her 12-year old brother. All seemed well. The sun was shining. She reported that they were playing a “really fun game.”
And then they weren’t.
I noticed through the kitchen window that she has assumed the pouting posture: arms folded against chest, head down, stomping feet leading her behind the deck. And her brother looked nonchalant.
I knew it was bad news. But I had hope that they’d work it out. (I am foolishly optimistic at the oddest times.)
Eventually, the patio door slid open and she came through, sobbing, rubbing her eyes with a fist and explaining through gasps the grave injustice that her brother had perpetrated against her.
He put a metal thing on the tire swing.
A METAL THING! On the TIRE SWING!
“And I told him I didn’t want it there and he didn’t take it off.”
Blank stare. And?
“AND HE ACTED LIKE HE COULDN”T SEE IT . . . even though I did THIS!” (Insert pointing gesture.)
She resumed dramatic sobbing.
Eventually she removed the metal thing (the metal thing?!) but she could not get over the personal slight, the nerve of him to put on the metal thing and NOT REMOVE IT, how DARE HE!?
“He didn’t say he was sorry!”
I sighed, yanked open the patio door and called him over. “Please, Zach, tell her how sorry you are for not removing the metal thing . . . (and make it sound like you actually mean it!).”
She sort of accepted the apology but still cried, still rubbed her fist into her grimy face.
I suggested that if she needed to continue crying about it, she could go to her room.
I did offer a hug.
I tried to understand the gravity of the situation, but, alas, I did not.
How many days is Summer NoBreak, anyway?