When the kids are good, they are really good. But when they’re bad, they’re awful. They have their moments. Of course, the excessively loud, tedious episodes seem to outnumber. Or at least those are easier to dwell on. The good, though, they can be great.
Maybe it’s because the bad times tend to happen in grand calamities. They consume me: my voice raised and eyes wide and body tense. They make me question and worry that I’m doing everything wrong because it shouldn’t be this hard. Why is it always so damn hard?
The good are smaller, quieter, blink and you’ll miss it. Like a brief reset to make it all bearable. Tiny flashes tucked inside my pocket. There usually isn’t much of a story to share when things are well.
Sometimes, though, like yesterday morning. Buzz and Abby are cuddled together in a hug. His arms are tight around her and she has her head on his chest. They’re both smiling up at me, not wanting to let the other go. He’d then give her a kiss on the forehead and she’d lift up to give him one back. Brother and sister. Little and littler. Simple and delicate and rare. For a few minutes it was almost the picture of perfect.
The only way it could have been better is if my son had been wearing pants.
Good times. I’ll take ’em however I can get ’em.