It was a long week on the home front. By Thursday, Rachel was looking like the Giving Tree towards the end of the book, when the boy's neediness is getting out of hand. We had tears streaming down cheeks or bedroom doors slamming every single evening.
There was one night when Andrew's "Mom....Mom.....Mommm" was echoing hauntingly from the bathroom upstairs. We were ignoring him, but we still winced every time we heard him. I finally went up to the door and implored him to just get out of the tub and get into pajamas so we could read books and get to bed.
"But I don't have pajamas here," he sighed.
"So go to your drawer and get some," I replied, struggling to keep my voice to a reasonable tone. It had been a difficult dinner, with lots of cross-child sniping.
"But I'll be wet."
"So grab a towel!"
[pause] "...I need you to bring me a towel."
As I reported this to Rachel, she wondered if perhaps she had made a mistake long ago, being too available to her children, sabotaging their ability to help themselves.
This morning, though, everyone was authentically jolly. There was a pivotal moment when Andrew and Elizabeth were sitting at the breakfast table. Andrew had walled himself off with cereal boxes and his sister asked if she could have one. I braced myself for the shouting, but Andrew said, "Sure" and handed her the biggest one. "Thanks!" she chirped in response. And I let out a sigh of relief.
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