Uncle Lithus

I am not a mother. Not only physically, but emotionally. I am not a mother. If I could give birth to 12 year olds, I'd have half a dozen kids. About the time other people start getting frustrated with them, I fall in love. But you have to get through those first twelve years before they start getting interesting. And really, I got nothing there.

I'm an amazing aunt. I have nieces and nephews who will attest to this. And I love being an aunt. You know why? You give them back. It is, however, hard work for me. It doesn't come easily. If I could get away with ignoring them until they turn twelve and then be able to have the relationship with them that I want, I would do that. Kids are smarter than that, though, and won't just automatically trust and love you when they turn twelve, if you've been ignoring them the last several years (sneaky buggers that they are). So I work at it and lay the groundwork for later.

Lithus, though, is a different story. I have heard him have great adventures with the Hatchlings, traveling to ice kingdoms (the frozen food section at the grocery store); the plains of Africa (the dry spot in the backyard); paint great masterpieces with the masters of the Renaissance (sidewalk chalk); and explore undiscovered caves and caverns (that spot between the couch and the coffee table). This morning, he and the Hatchlette learned the difference between a sea slug and an orchid ~ which, based on the pictures I saw in the magazine as I glanced over, drinking my coffee, isn't as obvious as one would expect.

So I drink my coffee. Lithus discovers pirate booty. I read the occasional snuggly story. Lithus becomes a royal steed that flies. The Hatchling and Hatchlette laugh and squeal. And I am amazed, convinced it's one of the most beautiful sounds I've ever heard.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.