Last night on my way up to bed, I stopped to check on the children. Sarah was still awake, and as I leaned over to kiss her, she told me that she was proud of Gabriel, because earlier in the evening he had fallen out of bed, and had not cried.
When she said this, she was lying next to him, in his bed, which is her traditional weekend perch.
Although we moved to this house for more space, on weekends, in homage to our ancestors, my children pretend we live on the Lower East Side, circa 1929, and share a single room.
It reminded me of a story Sarah told us years ago when she was in preschool. One night over dinner she said, "Holden cried today at school." When we asked why, she responded casually, "I pushed him."
We all have our blind spots, and hers have been admirably consistent over the years.
And so I chose not to suggest that by crowding him out of his own bed, she was the reason her brother fell. Because one thing that raising her has taught me is that obviously, in both of these scenarios, one thing has nothing to do with other.
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