When I was pregnant and my belly had grown too big for my son to sit on my lap without falling off, he confessed that he did not want a brother. He told me that he wanted a little sister. He said that he would always save her because he has a sword and a big heart. He ended up with a sweet little brother. As nervous as I was about how this new relationship between two small people would turn out a part of me always figured that everything would find its natural fit. And I was right. These two brothers are like old friends.
My oldest son spent an entire afternoon teaching his yiddle brudder important stuff, like where we keep the honey in the kitchen, which dog is fun to sit on, and where he keeps his secret stash of the best tasting board books. My young son, who is very calm and always seems amused by his older brother’s shenanigans (most notably when he earns a time out), just cooed and drooled along. During this charming afternoon I listened in as my oldest son read (and by read I mean made up because he cannot yet read) this story to his yiddle brudder:
Once upon a time there was a chicken and a bear and they lived in a barn together. The chicken liked to hibernate a lot. The bear liked to eat a lot. So the chicken hibernated and the bear ate the chicken. The end.
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