I settle into the La-Z-Boy with a sigh. The kids are upstairs in M’s room, playing quietly together. After a moment, my body relaxes. It feels luxurious to sit and not have to referee a wrestling match for a few minutes.
Then it hits me. The kids are playing quietly.
This can’t be good.
Previous quiet playtime has resulted in such fiascoes as: the great hair-cutting incident; painting body, wall and miscellaneous other surfaces with Desitin (not easy to clean, by the way); the 4003-stuffed-animal jamboree and the feed-the-cat-12-days-worth-of-food-in-2-minutes-disaster. However, each of those little adventures occurred when my children were “playing” alone.
I shudder to think of the damage they could do putting TWO diabolically clever minds together.
As I approach the door I hear them.
How about then she went dancing?
Yeah! (There is humming.)
Could it be that they are using their combined powers for good and not evil?
Instead of disturbing the peace, I returned to my recliner to contemplate the silence. The good silence. I’ve been a parent long enough to know that you don’t do anything to upset the delicate peace on the rare occasions that it happens.
In actuality, my kids are good friends. They’re good friends who happen to be brother and sister so they are forced to be together longer and more often than any two people should have to when they didn’t choose that life.
Born two years and seven days apart, they’ve somehow developed an interest in many of the same things. My son plays with Polly Pockets and Barbie as often as my daughter plays trucks and Rescue Heroes. Their imaginations, when let loose unencumbered by time restrictions, continually amaze me.
Naturally, they fight as often as they get along. It’s expected, but still frustrating for me as a parent.
Their relationship, if we’re lucky, will be the longest relationship with another person in their lives. It is my hope for them that their closeness; their support for one another; continues long after I’m done refereeing.