Scene: Another typical evening at home, post-dinner.
G is cleaning the kitchen, O is playing legos and I am trying to get a haphazardly-wiped down baby into her pajamas on the living room floor.
S is having none of it and log-rolls around the carpet, trying to flail her way out of the outfit. She wants to climb on the coffee table. I want her dressed. I persist. She cries.
I mockingly sympathize with her “Oh…I know, I’m so sorry…it’s so rough”
More angry wails. I stuff her robust arms into the fleece sleeper.
“Oh…I know, I’m a terrible person”.
“Don’t say that”, O says very seriously, suddenly looking up from his toys.
“Don’t say that – that’s not nice about yourself”. He really meant it, staring at me with furrowed forehead.
I looked at him with such surprise, gave him a big bear hug and told him that was the nicest thing anyone had said to me all day.
Some days, you just need to hear – even from a four-year-old – that you’re alright.