I don’t know about you, but I worry about my pampered bio kids sometimes. I moved and changed schools multiple times as a kid. I hated it; it was awful. My mom worked and, much as she did for me, there wasn’t anybody to bring me my lunch if I forgot it. As I got older, I had more responsibilities, and a few more baddish things to live through, etc. So I had my (small compared to, say, Jeannette Walls) trials and tribulations, and I grew up reasonably tough.
So far, not so the three, whose only tribs thus far have been the arrivals of their various siblings and the horror of, say, not being given a cup of the appropriate color at breakfast.
It’s taken this friend to remind me that Rory definitely isn’t in that position. Tough times, she’s seen a few. And I’ve been, let’s say, somewhat willfully blind to it for the past few weeks. I don’t know why. Maybe because it’s tough to admit that why, yes, as everyone has pointed out, we have taken on something rather difficult. Maybe because I–like Rory–don’t like to be “taught” things. I like to discover them myself, and then pretend I have always known them, because I am so very very cool. Maybe it’s because I’m just a snot.
You know what I’m going to do with Rory and Wyatt his afternoon? Bake cookies. WIth them. The three of us, doing a big family thing. Small, but big. Peanut butter cookies, because of the joyful making the criss-cross form parks part that everybody likes. (Fortunately I also really like extremely squished, and therefore crispy and burnt, cookies.)
Maybe we’ll get crazy ambitious and mail some to China. To Rory’s Bethany-friend.