This is my Mark, tired out after a busy morning.
It’s nice to have honest children. We’ve always tried to not punish them for telling the truth. Something about, “Did you hit your brother?” If they say Yes, and receive punishment, then aren’t we teaching them to say “No.”, in effect, teaching them that to lie keeps them out of trouble?
So, here’s the story. Mark and Luke are upstairs, playing nicely, and I am downstairs. Nothing ever happens unless you attempt to answer the phone. Especially if it’s someone you’ve never met before. The screaming started almost as soon as I said “Hello.”
Then I heard the fwoop, fwoop, of a little bottom coming down the stairs and the crying gaining momentum. I could tell it was a hurt cry, so I ended the call and opened the stair door. Mark was three steps from the bottom, crying, blood running down his cheek. Luke was close behind, uninjured. I whisked Mark to the bathroom, and cleaned and applied pressure, wondering about stitches. The crying subsided and I asked what happened. Mark wails out, “Brother hit me with car!” Luke, who is sitting on the stool watching everything, echoes, “I hit his cheek with car.” Mark wails out again, “He say sorry!” and Luke again echoes, “I say sorry.” This makes me smile. “Did you forgive brother?” “I forgive Luke,” he says. “He forgive me,” says the echo. I emphasize that we don’t hit. “yes, mom,” they both respond. Bleeding has slowed, bandaids have been applied, Tylenol given, prayers prayed, kisses and hugs, and all is well. “I go play now?” asks Mark. “Play now?” says the echo. “Yes, “ and off they go. Resilent little critters, and thankfully, honest.
So, here’s the story. Mark and Luke are upstairs, playing nicely, and I am downstairs. Nothing ever happens unless you attempt to answer the phone. Especially if it’s someone you’ve never met before. The screaming started almost as soon as I said “Hello.”
Then I heard the fwoop, fwoop, of a little bottom coming down the stairs and the crying gaining momentum. I could tell it was a hurt cry, so I ended the call and opened the stair door. Mark was three steps from the bottom, crying, blood running down his cheek. Luke was close behind, uninjured. I whisked Mark to the bathroom, and cleaned and applied pressure, wondering about stitches. The crying subsided and I asked what happened. Mark wails out, “Brother hit me with car!” Luke, who is sitting on the stool watching everything, echoes, “I hit his cheek with car.” Mark wails out again, “He say sorry!” and Luke again echoes, “I say sorry.” This makes me smile. “Did you forgive brother?” “I forgive Luke,” he says. “He forgive me,” says the echo. I emphasize that we don’t hit. “yes, mom,” they both respond. Bleeding has slowed, bandaids have been applied, Tylenol given, prayers prayed, kisses and hugs, and all is well. “I go play now?” asks Mark. “Play now?” says the echo. “Yes, “ and off they go. Resilent little critters, and thankfully, honest.
While trying to console Mark over his cookie breaking in half. I joyfully pointed out he now had TWO cookies. As I poured a cup of coffee, I heard, 6..7..8..9.. 10 cookies! Sure enough, he had 10 cookie bits! Six of which were no longer on the table.
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