I was worried when my boys were born four years apart that they wouldn’t connect well. That we had missed the precious window of time in which they would grow up to be best friends, arch enemies, and allies against any outside foe.
One night, we were all sitting on the floor playing with our new toy who couldn’t have been more than six months old, still too roly and poly to sit up on his own.
Older was being silly, as he is wont to do, and does so very well, and younger just started to laugh, in that delightful, contagious way that babies have when the whole body contorts and the feet kick and the arms flail and the chuckle comes from deep within that milky belly. He threw back that giant head and laughed, and the older just amped it up another notch and for that little moment in time, we sat and laughed with them until our weeble wobbled right out of his perch and onto his back and laughed some more. We were breathless, tummies aching with the joy of the moment, as our chubby little gnome tried to imitate his older brother’s antics, cracking himself, and us, up in the process.
It was precious. And timeless. And a joyful harbinger of many, many more days to come.
That’s when I knew that the age difference didn’t matter. That no matter what, they were kin, and kinship means more than years. Bonded as brothers can only be; best friends, arch enemies, and allies against any outside foe.