Thursday, December 16, 2010


About three weeks or so after Bro had moved back to PA, waaaaay back when the girls were still with us "temporarily," we had this huge blowout fight.  He made some decisions about how far to extend the guardianship power of attorney that he gave us, and didn't bother to consult us, and we were pretty upset.   When Hubby had finally settled down enough (Hubby, not me), he explained to Bro that he'd hurt me and he'd insulted me, and he'd better call me to apologize for his behavior before he expected to set foot in our house again.  And he was never again to deal with detailed matters like this with me; he was to talk with Hubby only.

I forget the precise reason I called him (it might have been about the paperwork to get Large Fry evaluated for speech therapy), but I called him.  Hubby was out with the youth group kids at a nearby state park, having a summer beach afternoon/evening and bonfire and stuff, and I was home with the Fries.  I should not have called him when I was alone, in retrospect.  Innyhoo.  I called him.  I was about to end the very-shortlived (until that point) conversation, when he said, ""

And like the polite sibling I was raised to be, I listened.  To an apology that wasn't an apology, followed by his list of reasons why I was mad and why he understood that I was mad.

Only one problem.  His reasons weren't my reasons for being angry.  So (stupidly) I tried to explain that, no, he was wrong, and continued with why I was mad.  He interrupted me, informed me that I was incorrect in my reasons for being angry, re-explained "my" reasons for being upset, and then asked me to stop interrupting him when I tried to correct his erroneous assumptions again.  And that's when he suddenly remembered promising Hubby that he wouldn't talk with me about these things...and he refused to let me even finish a thought, much less offer my side of my own emotions.  I hung up on him.  (For the record, he never did acknowledge that he was wrong, and that I knew my own mind.)

Innyhoo...I told you that story to tell you this one:

Medium has been eating very slowly tonight.  As I got up to put my empty plate in the sink, she cheerily said, "I'm so pwoud of yew, Auntie J!  You finished awl youwr food!"

"I'm not too proud of you right now," I commented, looking at her mostly-full plate.

"Awre yew angwee?"

"A little bit.  You're not eating."

"You awre angwee because you'wre not pwoud of me.  You awre angwee because I didn't finish..."  She kept rambling while I came out to the living room, where Hubby was sitting and watching Tinkerbell with the sickies.  "Your turn," I said.

He went into the kitchen as Medium continued to prattle about precisly why I was upset.

"Well, at least it's genetic," Hubby commented with a grin.

"What is?"

"Her telling you why you're mad."

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