It is evening, and Owen wanders into my room. He should be in bed, but instead he comes in and plops himself down and asks, "How is it been doing, Mom?"
It's so sweet, the way he is trying to learn the language of the American people instead of relying on his native tongue of . . . Russian? German? I'm not really sure.
We chat for a minute, but, honest to god, at the end of the day I only have so much patience for meandering philosophical discussions like, "Do You Think the Kindergarten Concert Will be Fun and Why?" and "Which Superhero do You Like Most and Why?" Hint: All of these discussions are based on nothing I care about and will always include "And Why?"
Then Sam comes in. He has started to catch on to these nighttime talks that Owen arranges, and, as ever, if Owen gets it, Sam wants it, even if he doesn't want it.
They both start talking over each other.
It is a nuclear arms race of Things I Don't Care About.
Sam bringt in sports, which is pretty much a trump card, but Owen fires back with something about grass growing and jesus christ, seriously?
I feel myself snapping, even as I know I shouldn't. Even as I acknowledge how fortunate I am that they are here and healthy and happy.
"GUYS. I need you to go away now."
No sugar-coating. They are going to remember that in therapy years from now.
". . . and she just told us we had to go away. So I started doing crack cocaine."
But the worst thing is that they respond by just kindly, politely, going away. As if to show me what manners are.
"Let us lead by example, my brother, that she might learn the ways of polite society."
They tromp out of the room.
Owen offers a cheerful wave and an "Okay!"
Then, as they are halfway up the stairs, Owen sneaks back and whispers, "I'll come back later, when you've had a few minutes."
Which is so sweet.
Except, at this point, I kind of just want him to go to bed.