Hard to remember sometimes that he was fifteen and not twelve, not ten, not seven.
Saturday evening we had seven boys sitting around our kitchen table eating pizza. Three of them live here, the rest were friends. And while I don’t want that number in our house every day, or even every week, it was a glorious cacophony at the time.
I have almost always known ours wouldn’t be a house where young people automatically gathered. We are out in the woods, for one thing, and there is no Xbox. And we rarely have soda in the house. Yesterday, these boys spent much of the time in the basement and under T’s bed. I hope to see them all again soon. But I understand that other houses harbor Twinkies and four-wheelers. We have only a porch roof to jump from and leniency when it comes to fire play.
So it’s not a common occurrence (which my sanity says is a good thing), but when they do happen to gather all at once, it’s a happy thing. And their appetites! They eat with such gusto! It’s marvelous!
And then most of them left, and that was good too.
My youngest child is the least like me. Even Luca with his natural athletic ability, feels more like a product of my genes than Barno. B is fierce and determined and resilient. He melded into the large group of older boys, many of them twice his height, and ruled his bubble space with an iron fist. At one point he came downstairs scowling because someone had thrown his favorite stuffy during the stuffy war.
“Do you need help?” Michael asked.
“No, I need revenge!” he clarified with a shriek, and was off back upstairs, tears barely dried, a look of focused fury on his small face. God help whoever tossed that fateful stuffed monkey.
Also, is anyone else tired of taking pictures of snow?