|Okay, they look a little funny, but we love them.|
A couple of years ago, our youngest daughter and her daughter moved back to Edmonton from the west coast.
They had been away for far too long.
It was cause for celebration.
So everyone came over to . . . celebrate.
I should probably explain here that, at that time, when all of our kids and their families gathered, we numbered twenty-five people.
Twelve of whom were under the age of ten.
Generally, the parents and very youngest members gathered in the front room upstairs to chat.
The oldest of the grandkids fled to the basement.
Where the toys were.
Now these kids were used to being together.
And treated each other like siblings.
Getting along fabulously for the most part.
With occasional bouts of tears and irritation . . .
It was a fairly normal evening.
Adults – visiting.
Kids downstairs – playing.
Someone started to cry.
Our six-year old came running up the stairs.
“Someone’s crying!” he announced. Needlessly, I might point out.
I looked at him. “Who is crying?”
Now, my daughter’s daughter hadn't been around for some time. While the rest of his cousins were decidedly well known to this young man, this little girl was not.
He handled the confusion well.
“That baby, who I have no idea who she is!”
Ah. Identification complete.
Maybe we should put that on her birth certificate.