My brother Tim, just shy of four years old, had made his way up the stone tower and stood smiling and waving excitedly at us from the top of the slide. He sat carefully down on the precipice and - with one great push - propelled himself forward and zoomed down with a bright expression of glee only found on the faces of children. At the bottom he turned to us with utter success and satisfaction. Then, slow to rise from his adventure, Tim barely scooted enough to dangle his legs off the end of the slide before another slightly bigger boy came barreling down behind him - kicking him squarely in the back hard enough to send him flying. Landing on all fours, a few seconds of shock gave way to giant wails of pain and indignity. Within the blink of an eye (so reports my mother) I waddled over to the bigger boy and smacked him across the face with all my might.
"Why did you kick my brother?!" I screamed.
(this is always the part of the story where my mother becomes the most animated - her voice gets all high and screechy - her breath caught between exertion and laughter).
The boy exploded into a mess of tears, of course...and this is usually where the story ends - with my mother laughing and sighing in fake exasperation and genuine pride. I don't know how much of this story is actually true - but it sounds like me. And I always wonder what happened afterward...was there an exchange of "I'm sorry" between the sheepish parents? Did my mom laugh as hard at the time as she does each time she retells the story? I'd like to think she did because I am sure that's what I would have done.
In my mind - this is what I looked like as I stood victoriously between the weepy boys:
***favorite moment of the day: fake screaming and crying for Pony rides with Chad.
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