Among The Branches
Title: Among the Branches
Prompt: Birds of a Feather
Author's Note: This is my response to the Brigits Prompt for the first week in February. I hope you enjoy!
Some days I wonder if they'll kill each other.
Really, I wonder who will snap first. Will it be the oldest - our pre-teen daughter - ripe with drama and righteous indignation? She spends a great deal of time in her room, avoiding her brothers. No boys allowed. Little sisters OK.
Or perhaps my youngest will one day have had enough of her older brothers' antics and finally just smack one of them. Unfortunately, I can actually visualize that little scenario, and I can guarantee I'll be torn between laughing and crying the day she finally beats up one of her obnoxious siblings. She's tiny, but mighty.
"I can see the headlines now," I say, turning my head to look at Bob as he leans against the counter. I love to watch the ways he grins as he spies on the kids in the backyard.
"Yeah?" He murmurs, his lips curving in that way that fathers smile as they see themselves in their kids' antics.
"Yep. Grade School Boys Beaten To Death By Kindergarten Barbie."
He snorts a laugh in response, saunters to stand behind me, and lightly wraps his arms around my waist. These times are cherished - with the house quiet, the scent of a candle's mellow vanilla floating through the air, and only the muted laughter of children and birds drifting in from outside. The warmth of Bob's chest seeps into me, making my mind languid and sentimental.
Quietly, with his breath whispering across my face, he leans and feathers his lips across my cheek. In the moment of peace, he says, "But watch them now. Right this instant, they're all playing together." The pause makes his point before he adds, "For now."
And they are. The youngest reaches up for her older brother to pull her into the climbing tree, while the oldest hoists a broken piece of plywood up into the branches. Somewhere, hidden away in the thick pine needles, our little blond boy grasps hold of the offered wood and pulls it up and out of sight from our prying eyes. Sure, my mind pricks at what they're doing (and is it dangerous), but I don't dare disturb the moment.
With a muscle-deep sigh, I turn around, lay my head on Bob's chest and ask, "They think we're in the garage, don't they?"
"Oh yeah," Bob mumbles into my hair. "Otherwise they'd be beating each other with sticks."
Prompt: Birds of a Feather
Author's Note: This is my response to the Brigits Prompt for the first week in February. I hope you enjoy!
Some days I wonder if they'll kill each other.
Really, I wonder who will snap first. Will it be the oldest - our pre-teen daughter - ripe with drama and righteous indignation? She spends a great deal of time in her room, avoiding her brothers. No boys allowed. Little sisters OK.
Or perhaps my youngest will one day have had enough of her older brothers' antics and finally just smack one of them. Unfortunately, I can actually visualize that little scenario, and I can guarantee I'll be torn between laughing and crying the day she finally beats up one of her obnoxious siblings. She's tiny, but mighty.
"I can see the headlines now," I say, turning my head to look at Bob as he leans against the counter. I love to watch the ways he grins as he spies on the kids in the backyard.
"Yeah?" He murmurs, his lips curving in that way that fathers smile as they see themselves in their kids' antics.
"Yep. Grade School Boys Beaten To Death By Kindergarten Barbie."
He snorts a laugh in response, saunters to stand behind me, and lightly wraps his arms around my waist. These times are cherished - with the house quiet, the scent of a candle's mellow vanilla floating through the air, and only the muted laughter of children and birds drifting in from outside. The warmth of Bob's chest seeps into me, making my mind languid and sentimental.
Quietly, with his breath whispering across my face, he leans and feathers his lips across my cheek. In the moment of peace, he says, "But watch them now. Right this instant, they're all playing together." The pause makes his point before he adds, "For now."
And they are. The youngest reaches up for her older brother to pull her into the climbing tree, while the oldest hoists a broken piece of plywood up into the branches. Somewhere, hidden away in the thick pine needles, our little blond boy grasps hold of the offered wood and pulls it up and out of sight from our prying eyes. Sure, my mind pricks at what they're doing (and is it dangerous), but I don't dare disturb the moment.
With a muscle-deep sigh, I turn around, lay my head on Bob's chest and ask, "They think we're in the garage, don't they?"
"Oh yeah," Bob mumbles into my hair. "Otherwise they'd be beating each other with sticks."