Wednesday, June 5, 2013

A Normal Day With My Favorite Boys

I love to spend time with a pack of young men that I superlatively refer to as my favorite boys. While I admit that I have a special bond with the eleven-year-old twins, the truth is that I enjoy the company of all six boys in the family, ages 13 through 3, as well as the big sister. 

I have a lot of good intentions about taking pictures of our time together. But let's be honest. When they are over, I am busy flipping grilled cheese sandwiches, washing sticky little hands, pouring orange juice, holding Ranger and the cats for petting sessions, chatting about video games, and negotiating debates about which movie to watch. All of this chaos is our normal operating style, and as much as I would love to capture it on camera, I tend to have my hands quite full.

So last weekend, when four of my favorite boys were over, I had a brainstorm. While caught up in my own tornado of activity, I handed my phone over to one of the twins and said, "Take pictures!" 

Off he went, with a gleam in his eye, to capture the action unfolding on the trampoline.

Meanwhile, back in the house, the three-year-old was working on his sugar buzz. Of course, I always feed them plenty of soda pop and candy. What's the fun of having favorite boys if you can't spoil them rotten?

At this point, our happy activities were suddenly interrupted by a poorly sniffling five-year-old. Carried inside from the tramp by one of the older boys, this sad little man explained to me that he had hurt his leg. 

I looked at his brave little face and his eyes full of tears that he was trying not to spill.

I examined his wounded leg, which was covered with at least ten tiny bruises, in various stages of healing.

I scrutinized the place where he pointed, the site of the current, if practically invisible, injury.

I said that it looked very painful, but I thought it would probably be okay.

I asked him if he thought a kiss might help.

He nodded up and down, very quickly.

I told him to keep his finger pointed right at the hurt spot, so I wouldn't miss it. And then I kissed that sad little boo-boo.

Apparently, the kiss worked. He smiled, marched back out to the trampoline, and showed the others his war wound.

And then my photographer took a picture of his twin brother's booty, and everything was back to normal.

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