Houdin invited the younger kids out to the snow fort to have a snowball fight. I thought about stopping it, but I decided to let it go. I was busy cleaning the kitchen and entertaining The Baby, so I figured a bit of fresh air would be good about now.
While they were out, I came up with a Big Idea. I don't know how this would go over, but I thought it would be kind of cool if you had a certain day, like Thursday for example, that we could refer to as Before and After Thursday. Yeah, Friday would sound better, but is usually pretty busy. Anyway, the premise would be that you would take a "Before" photo of one room in your house before you've cleaned it, and then you would clean it (like, duh) and take an "After" photo, and then post it on your blog. Whaddya think? Huh?
While I was having this epiphany, after I'd taken a "before" photo of my kitchen and had begun to clean it, I heard Sweetheart crying. Loudly. And then I heard loud footsteps. Very loud ones. And then a slamming door.
In stomps Monet, who is the child who most easily loses his temper, and he's half-crying, half-yelling.
"Houdin is being really mean to us! He's...he's..." he sputters.
"Well, walk away," I say. I try not to get tied up in blame and judging, but just try to help them cope with the situation by removing themselves. Sometimes this works, sometimes it doesn't. Houdin is directly behind Monet, a sure sign that he wants to be there to clear up the story, ie: defend himself.
The story: Houdin is 13. The other two are 9 and 5. They both come in crying, their faces red, rubbing parts of their bodies. They've been attacked. They've been hit. Hard.
Houdin doesn't understand the problem. It was a snowball FIGHT, he says. FIGHT being the operable word here.
Monet is inconsolable. I see him angrier than I've ever seen. He pushes his brother, screams at him to get away, and then...he says he hates him. And he really meant it.
See, the thing is, I tell Houdin, that you have a reputation for instigating, and in this case, you really, really hurt your siblings. He doesn't get it. It doesn't make sense to him, he says.
Look, I tell him, you're almost fourteen. They're nine and five.
Yeah, he counters, which is fourteen. And I was outnumbered.
I remind him of the time that he was having a water balloon fight for his thirteenth birthday, how he and his friends were having a great time outside the garage, and how Dad got this great idea to throw a water balloon from the second floor window. The balloon landed square in the middle of Houdin's chest. It scared him. And it hurt. I ask him, Do you remember that?
He remembers.
It's not the same.
He just doesn't get it. Dad's much bigger. They knew they were having a snowball fight. It doesn't make sense, he says.
Ice balls, I say, can hurt very badly. Like a baseball to the chest. Would you like me to demonstrate?
No, he answers. But he's still angry. He's not remorseful. They're just wrong, he says.
Well, they might be wrong, but they both hate you now. If that's the way it works, I don't think I'd want to be right.
Monet comes down with his journal and opens it to a page he's just written.
I let Houdin read the note. "So?" he says.Dear Mom,
I'm so sorry I lost my temper at Houdin. Please tell Houdin that I'm
so sorry.
Love,
Monet
Bo just came home. I guess we'll be going on the date together.
The next blog you get will be AudioBlogged.
