Up and rising
Recently I've discovered that small sister #1 has a blog of her very own.
On one hand, I'm deeply disturbed in her ability to cast triumphant shadows over Marquis de Sade's trembling corpse. She writes about eviscerating earthworms with delightful abandon and tossing them over our balcony. Reading that entry hammers a vision into my head of her rocking back and forth on her heels in autistic revelry, mocking the spliced wormy lumps as they rain in the shadow of her Cheshire grin, nineteen floors to the ground.
On the other hand, I'm astonished. Yesterday she was three years old, raining tears and tiny-fisted blows on my arm; today she's prepubescent and raining obsceneties and barely-concealed angst instead.
On the third hand, I'm simply bursting at the seams with pride, because she's going to be a marvellous writer someday: "You can taste the sarcasm, lemon-sharp and clear as a tambourine". :)
On the fourth hand...dear lord, but my little sister is weird.
I refuse to romanticize my day, as nothing of substance happened.