Yesterday Elle* stomped down the hall calling, "Mommmmmmy!" and from the tone of her voice alone I knew she was telling on someone.
I also knew who that someone had to be, since this was smack in the middle of school hours, leaving only one brother at home to pester his little sister.
"Mommy!" she wailed. "He hurt me. He hurt me on my face."
I did the typical mom-of-multiple-children assessment: no blood, no bruising, no crushed skull. She's fine.
"Oh dear," I said. "What happened?"
"He did it." She turned around to point at Em, who had trailed down the hall behind her and was now peeking around the corner in a semi-repentant sort of way. "That boy right there."
I had to press my lips together to keep from laughing. Apparently if you make Elle mad, you no longer have a name, nor are you related to her. You are that boy right there.
With a small amount of prompting, Em apologized and hugged his sister, and Elle, in her chirping little voice, gave him his name back: "That's okay, [Em]!" Then they scampered away in search of more collaborative mischief.
And I thought to myself, if only I could forgive with that much ease and guilelessness. I suppose I could stand to learn a thing or two from that girl right there.
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