Lore Blinn Gibson

My children fight over me. For a moment of peace, I went to the front room and sat on the couch. Our son came in and sat on the edge, momentarily preoccupied with a plastic bag. His sister slipped in behind him, taking his spot next to me. A tussle ensued, all over who got to sit next to me. Finally, I expressed my displeasure of their fighting and they stomped away, united in their anger at me.

When they left, the dog came in and sat down in the place they both wanted. She doesn't fight, she just waits for an empty space.

I'm sure there's a lesson in there somewhere, but for the moment I am just sad that my children are in competition for my attention, or for their place, or for anything, really. Sure, my mothering could use improvement. Maybe I'm not handling it well.

So I pray, asking God to make them friends, to give them enough good memories to overcome the bad, to provide enough in common so that they can enjoy being together when they are older.

And then, Maia slips in quietly and deposits herself at the other end of the couch. Her brother dances in, a torn plastic bag making a laurel wreath around his buzzed head. His comic pratfalls elicit a giggle from his sister. Maybe there's hope. That's lesson enough for today.