Watch Out for Elmo's Eyes

Nothing says, I love you, Mommy, like refusing to get into the car after school and tying up the car pool line. It was a rainy pick-up this afternoon, so all the kiddies were waiting inside by the door. As soon as it was my turn to pull up and the school door opened, I saw the sleepy, cantankerous mood written all over Heath's face. We made eye contact, and I immediately knew his plan. He slid down the wall, then collapsed into a tired heap. Miss Robin finally shuffled him out the door. Then he went AWOL into the bushes. I vaguely considered driving away. A little cajoling and a possible threat of his turn being skipped finally did the trick.

The drive home was relatively quiet. He told me they made pretzels, Cheerios, and something that looks like beans. Mostly he just sat back in his seat, holding Puppy over his face. Stella was holding her green blanket and her latest love, Elmo. The number of times each day that Heath swipes these items from Stella's grip, leaving her in an emotional puddle of tears and betrayed anger, is innumerable. Every time this happens, I capture Heath (you can be sure he is running like he stole it), and say, Did you ask Stella for a turn? He has three responses to this technique. 1) He wrestles his way out of my grip and continues on the lam, leaving me in an emotional puddle of tears and betrayed anger, 2) he throws the blanket and stuffed animal with all his might at Stella's head, or 3) he actually stops, looks at her, and says, Can I have a turn? And she always says, yes.

But today, on that drive back home, a magical moment happened. While we were stopped at a light, Heath says, Gigs, can I have a turn?

I was stunned. This was the first time he's asked her for a turn without me prompting him to do so. I looked in my rear-view mirror. He was reaching out for Elmo. Stella grinned, said, Yeah, and handed him Elmo.

A few moments pass, and Heath says it again. Gigs, can I have a turn? I am brimming with delight. Such a lovely, cordial exchange between brother and sister. I look in my rear-view mirror and see he is reaching for her green blanket. As I am on the verge of showering them with praise for such a respectful (and painless) way of interacting, I see Stella look down at her blanket, then back at Heath. She pulls the blanket with both hands as tight as she can to her chest and loudly says, No.

Now it was Heath's turn to be stunned. His reaction to her refusal is to simultaneously swipe her blanket and throw Elmo at her head, Elmo's big plastic eyeballs loudly clonk her cheek. The screaming and crying ensues.

(But they had that moment of amicable communication. I won't, can't lose sight of that. It can be done.)