Sometimes I wonder why I own a television. Here is the scene before me:
Zsa Zsa (age 8): "Eva is so annoying! Sometimes I wish I didn't have a sister." High-pitched screech.
"I can't stand it!" More screeching, storm upstairs to room.
Eva (age 6): "She doesn't understand," sob sob, cry. "She thinks I don't love her but I LOVE HER MORE THAN ANYTHING!" Sniffle, cry. "And she said she wishes I'd never been born, really, she said that once!"
Cry, wail, "I am going outside!" Step outside, notice it is 100 degrees, stealthily sneak back inside.
The boys, concurrently:
Pes: "Stalin, let's play a game with this ball."
Stalin: "Throw it up."
Pes: "OK."
Zsa Zsa, moments later, floats downstairs, "I am sorry Mommy," smiles. I say, "Say sorry to your sister."
Zsa Zsa: "I am going to, I made her a card." Across the way they are laughing and smiling and hugging. All in the space of four minutes.
In six years, I may be hiding out in Arkansas in a trailer working at Wal Mart and going by the name, "Fern."
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