Sunday, September 21, 2008
I remember one day in, perhaps, 1979, when my boys were about 6 and 3, and the six-year-old had had enough of the three-year-old following him around and trying to horn in on his games, and he'd gotten rough with him. There were a lot of tears and I was absolutely furious, explaining to the older boy that he could absolutely not beat up a little boy, but also trying to tell him that his baby brother adored him and ...
... and I had this horrible moment of thinking that, if I had to explain that, then everything I had done was wasted, and I realized that all I really wanted out of life was for my boys to be friends, that nothing else, absolutely nothing else, mattered. That whatever I left behind on this planet was pointless without that.
A little while ago, I called my older son to check in with him about something or other. His wife answered the phone and said that she was studying for a test and that he and the girls were at Uncle Gabe's. It's about 120 miles away, and this is not, by far, the first time the boys have gotten together on a whim, to let their children play and to spend a little time together.
The little girl being held is Gabe's, the three others are Jed's daughters. The cousins are very close friends and I can only imagine what underage maternalism will erupt in December when their male cousin arrives on the scene.
And my heart soars like a hawk.