My husband and I have three kids. Two sons and a daughter. Two boys, and a girl. They are perfect children. Which means that they are at times, so kind and helpful, we sit back aghast that these well behaved children are ours.
And then there are the other times, when one son walks up to the other and punches him. When asked something along the lines of “WHAT THE HECK WERE YOU THINKING???” the answer is some version of the entirety of the following: “I didn’t do it. He deserved it. It didn’t hurt.”
“I hate him.”
But there they are curled up together, laughing. Sleeping together in a pile, like puppies. Only willing to do something scary if the other comes along.
Today, they are off at a playdate, sitting next to each other playing Lego something or another with a friend. The friend has a sister, but no brother. He wishes he had a brother so very much. His sister wishes she had a sister, an older one. (Younger ones get into your stuff. If you are the younger one, the world is yours!)
The moments and days they appreciate each other are beautiful. They do recognize the gift that they have in each other.
And then they punch it in the mouth.