I am the fiddle.

I've been thinking alot about a conversation I had last weekend. It was over the phone with my little brother Tanner, who's featured swinging in my profile picture. On the typical Sunday, I take a drive to Carson and visit him, my other brother Austen, and my dad, but lately no day has been typical and I've been slacking in my sisterly duties and I haven't seen the kids in over two weeks. So I got a call last Sunday. My dad was on the phone first and simply said "somebody would like a word with you," and before I could say anything, he handed the phone off to Tanner. Imagine, if you will, the most pathetic, heart wrenching, 3 year old sniffly sad baby voice you have ever heard saying "you not coming home?" and you'll have a small idea of what I was up against. I, suddenly feeling like the most horrible and inconsiderate letdown this world has ever seen, started to explain that I couldn't "come home" because I had to pack and it was too late and the roads were icy and I'd be down the following weekend, but Tanner, prepared for the debate, cut short what I thought was a pretty decent explanation with another "you not coming home?" Only this time his voice was a littler sadder and there was an audible sob at the end. This kid knows what he's doing. Feeling much less confident and much more on the edge of sobbing myself, I started explaining again, but it was of no use. The little guy kept repeating those four words, getting more and more pathetic and teary each time, and I started thinking that maybe, just maybe, if I left right then I could make it down there, even though he'd be in bed and the roads would be treacherous and I probably wouldn't be back in Reno before midnight, but it'd be worth it if Tanner was once again happy with his demonic sister. After a few minutes of this agonizing conversation, the phone was quite abruptly taken over by my dad. "Sorry about that," he said, as I daubed at my damp eyes, "he wouldn't let me rest until he talked to you. And don't worry, he's been doing this kind of stuff alot lately. It's his new way of getting what he wants, so don't feel pressured to come down, we'll just see you next weekend. In fact, he's sitting at the kitchen counter right now eating a cookie and smiling at me." I was still engulfed by remorse, so I ended the conversation rather quickly, saying I'd be down the following weekend. And now, over a week later, I keep replaying this conversation, with a little kid who's not even four yet, and thinking about how he played me. Played me like a fiddle. He sat at the kitchen counter and ate a cookie, smiling and giggling and satisfied with the trauma he had put me through, while I sat on my couch for an hour, motionless with sorrow and wanting only to give him a big bear hug. He will have just turned six when I get back from Romania, and Austen will be nearly seven. I don't want to think about how much of a stranger I will be to them by then. I'll be that weird lady we've all had an encounter with who pinches cheeks and says "I remember you when you were THIS big! Come and sit on my lap." If only I could "come home" every few weeks and keep up the sisterness. Ah well, hopefully the occasional phone call will keep me semi real to them and, if not, it's just two years and I'll be able to make up time when I get back, right? Right. OR they could come and visit me. I think that's the optimal solution.