**This post was originally published on my previous blog, Confessions of a Supermommy.**
We stood in the kitchen, my husband and I. A rare treat to have him home for lunch on a weekday, even when he has a night flight. Him, rinsing dishes and loading the dishwasher. (Lucky girl, I am.) Me, wiping the counters, waiting for the boys to hurry and finish their sandwiches so I could wipe their hands and faces and rest time could begin.
I looked out the window and up through the trees. "It's really overcast out there," I commented. "There were even some raindrops on the way home from school."
E piped up from his spot at the table.
"That wasn't rain, Mom. Those drops were falling from my eyes."
You know, the drama, I expected. He's been Four for a few months now, and before that he was Three. And the fact that we had spent the entire ride home happily spotting airplanes in the sky was irrelevant, as revisionist history is his current specialty.
But the poetry! The poetry! caught me completely off guard.