I live in a house of boys. Energetic boys. Noisy boys. Boys who lack certain social graces. Boys who play tackle football in their rooms...complete with field goals. I complain about them kind of sort of a lot. Just ask my friends. Hilary's forever telling me to share one of my brother's irrational outbursts. "I hate you! I hate this family! I'd run away and join the circus, but I hate the circus!"
My family's been on vacation this past week, and I've had the whole house all to myself. It's been weird. I don't have to shank anyone in order to get on the computer. I don't have to wake up at 8 and tell Jonathan to STOP JUMPING ON ONE FOOT RIGHT OVER MY ROOM. I can watch whatever movies I want without someone whining that some football teams are playing on some field somewhere. (The Rose Bowl? What on earth's that?) The house stays cleaner, smells nicer, and sounds better when my little brothers are gone.
But now that they're back, I don't know what I've done for entertainment for the past week. How have I lived without making fun of my tough brother who giggles like a pansy? Without lying to Jonathan about stupid things and seeing his innocent reaction? Without listening to Micah stumble through the words in the scriptures and pronouncing "flocks" like "flock-ez"?
Sure, now all the good food disappears before I can blink; the kitchen is a veritable wreck; I've already lost my temper twice; I've lost my freedom to come and go when I please. But for some reason, it hasn't gotten under my skin like it usually does.
Much as I complain, I kinda like 'em. *puts finger to lips* But shhhh. I let them think that I can't stand them.