We have a biter.
My two year old, he of sky blues eyes, open-mouthed kisses and bright grins, is a biter. He bites his sister hard and my heart breaks open wide.
We don't bite. We don't hurt. We love each other.
We are gentle. We are kind. We love each other.
We listen with our ears. We help with our hands.
We. Love. Each. Other.
He's usually remorseful. Tender kisses, loving pats and baby-signed "I'm sorry"s aren't even a show. He means them, and her quick forgiveness makes my heart catch.
But he means the biting, too. Enough to draw tears and red welts.
She's such a verbal processor. They scuffle over toys or paper or God-knows-what, and she prevails because she has words.
She smells weakness. If only he could argue his position satisfactorily...
When words are law, she'll always win.
(i'll always win)
(but words aren't law)
His bite is worse than his bark.
(he just wants to be heard)
We are gentle. We are kind.
We listen with our ears.
We Love Each Other.