Last night Ruby threw a fit for reasons related to being the younger, smaller sister (who gets tired faster on a run with Dad than Cici does), and got herself pretty worked up. It became my job to get her back from the edge, and we spent some time talking in bed about how throwing fits doesn't often get you what you want. Once she was calm and we were talking quietly about other things, I grabbed a book of Emily Dickinson poems and started to read aloud. And without fail, this was the exchange after every poem:
Mom and/or Ruby: I don't get it.
Mom and/or Ruby: Yeah, me either.
And then the cat came in the room and I pretended that he was talking to us by doing a cat voice and saying funny things, and Ruby laughed until she was nearly crying.
We speak the same language.
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