It's happening a lot these days: Vida and Lea figuratively or literally wrapping their arms around each other and scampering off leaving Risa--technically the oldest of the three--screeching with righteous indignation. I try to stay out of these unavoidable flare-ups lest I spend the rest of my life serving as official referee for every disagreement or human salve for every little wound.
But today.
Today, Risa was so forlorn. Her eyes were squished closed and the tears poured and poured. For reasons I don't quite understand, Vida sniffed and said, "My abuelita does not like girls who whine. Come along, Lea." And they left. Risa yelled after her, "Why are you doing these mean things?"
"Oh, never mind them," I offered. "Want to help me cook?" She nodded and wiped her hand across her runny nose, efficiently distributing snot across her entire face. "Okay. Go wash your face. And your hands."
And that is how Risa and I ended up shelling peas together. We were quiet, mostly. I split the shells open, and she picked the peas out and tossed them into the bowl. She snacked on a few peas as she worked, and she talked a little bit about preschool, about who is shy and who is not (none of the girls, according to her, are shy). When we finished, I thanked her for her help and she ran off to play with her sisters. "Hey!" she said as she went, "Thanks for all your mommy work."
I don't know if I'm doing this right or wrong. The truth is that I spend most of the day with my heart split in three, trying to make sure the pieces are equal. But for twenty minutes today I was all Risa's, and it felt pretty good.
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