Had Cory been tweeting (edited to remove the “…, right?” at the end of each sentence)…
C: They are talking about getting married.
C: They are talking about you and Papa getting married.
C: We can get married now.
C: Barack Obama just said that you and Papa can get married now.
C (seeing a picture flash up on the screen while a reporter talks about the delay in the Prop 8 decision because Scalia is foaming at the mouth): Who is that bad man?
C (after Scalia’s picture is taken down): Go back, Daddy! I want to see that bad man again!
C: They are cheering because our family can get married now.
C: That bad man was angry because he is wrong.
C: I’m bored.
Then, she would have gone suddenly silent, as Daddy or Papa takes away all privileges due to arrival of the once-a-morning meltdown. Fisher’s Twitter feed would have been silent all along. He was more interested in his LeapPad than what happens on television shows “that aren’t for kids, Daddy.”
Since this whole fight began, I have been convinced that the merits, when reached, would come down to Justice Kennedy and the kids. Kennedy today…
“The differentiation [between heterosexual and homosexual couples] demeans the [homosexual] couple, whose moral and sexual choices the Constitution protects, see Lawrence, 539 U. S. 558, and whose relationship the State has sought to dignify. And it humiliates tens of thousands of children now being raised by same-sex couples. The law in question makes it even more difficult for the children to understand the integrity and closeness of their own family and its concord with other families in their community and in their daily lives.”
Papa in San Diego, the twins decide that what a weekend needs is near-constant bickering. On Sunday night, during “lay down two minutes,” just before bed…
D: Fisher, what is something that you liked about the weekend?
F: Um, I liked riding the roller coaster with you, Daddy, and I liked the Crooked House, and I saw bees in the zoo part, too. A lotta bit of bees.
D: Yah, there were a lot of bees buzzing in that hive, huh? Cory, what is something that you liked about the weekend?
C: I liked swimming lessons with Miss Christine. I wish I could have swimming lessons every day.
D: Did you like anything else?
C: And I liked riding on the ladybugs at Happy Hollow with Auntie Ann-nuh.
D: Well, you didn’t ride the ladybugs with Auntie Ann-nuh, silly. You rode them with Fisher. What didn’t you like about the weekend, Fisher?
F: I didn’t like that we didn’t do the Slip ‘n’ Slide, and I didn’t like when I ran across the parking lot without my Daddy. That was very bad, right, Daddy?
F: Because iffin a car er, eh, uh, would hit me, then I would have to go to the hospital, and I would cry a lot at the hospital.
D: That’s right.
F: But, you don’t cry a lot when you are dead, right, Daddy?
D (um…?): I don’t know, Fisher. That question’s a bit deep. Cory, what didn’t you like about the weekend?
C: I didn’t like when you put me in time-out.
D (after waiting to see if she acknowledges the reasons for the time-out): Why did you have to go in time-out, Cory?
C: I just didn’t like when you put me in time-out.
D: But, why did you have to go in time-out.
Silence. That difference — his not liking the act that he acknowledges got him in a bit of hot water and her not acknowledging any such act and just not liking the hot water — about sums up where they are right now…at least in terms of crime and punishment.
As Daddy drops the twins off at preschool, a fun parent of one of their classmates says, “Hey, I heard you had an incident at the house…?”
D (confused): We did?
Parent: I heard that you had a witch visit you in your house. Fisher told Sean all about it, and now it’s all Sean can talk about.
D: Oh, oh! That’s just a story that the kids and I have together.
Parent (laughing): Yah, Sean woke up the other night with a bad dream about it.
D: Oh, no! See, they think palm fronds that fall on the trees below are witches’ brooms. So, I drove over and got one of the fronds and put it in the back yard, so…(continuing past Parent’s now confused look)…when they got up, they saw the palm frond outside and thought that a witch had dropped it in our back yard overnight, and…
Parent (smiling): Okay, okay, I’m gonna just tell Sean that it was a pretend witch, not a real person.
Parent heads off to tell Sean that it was a pretend witch, not a real person. The pre-school had a “graduation” ceremony and party for the kids moving up from pre-K to TK (transitional kindergarten), after which Papa and Daddy immediately resolve to downplay that move each year, from level to level, in favor of an expectation that kids, and the twins in particular, are to successfully navigate all of the grades. You might very well be a star, but not because you worked through all of the paint and strung all of the beads available in pre-K.
And, because the twins are now moving on from this preschool to TK at the local public school (read, free) two blocks from the house, Sean will have other fish to fry at night than witch droppings at Cory’s and Fisher’s house…
Fisher screams hysterically and runs into the house. It takes a few moments to get clear that a bee stung him on the hand. Daddy finds the tweezers, removes the stinger, assembles a bag of ice, and commences to comfort. Over a crying Fisher’s head, Daddy signals to Cory, concern on her face, that she should pat Fisher and comfort him as well, maybe tell him she’s sorry that a bee stung him, make reassuring sounds.
After a bit more pantomimed encouragement, she pats him in sterile fashion on the shoulder and whispers quickly, “Sorry, Fisher.” Fisher is too wrapped up in his own pain to care…but Daddy frowns. After a few moments of that frown…
C (eyes excited and fixed on Daddy): I know, Fisher! I could draw you a picture. Do you want me to draw you a picture? That will make you feel better, right, Fisher?
F (through tears): Uh huh.
C: What color do you want the paper, Fisher?
F (able to recall his favorite color through sobs): You could draw it with orange paper.
Cory, clearly not the best at physical empathy but apparently a big believer in the healing power of art, gets to work. After what seems far too long, she pops back up to Daddy and Fisher.
C (presenting the attached drawing): Here you go, Fisher.
F (eyeing it): Thank you, Cory. You are so sweet, Cory.
D: What is it, Cory?
C (pointing as she deconstructs): Well, there is Fisher’s hand right there, and then there’s a bee next to it. That bee stung Fisher’s hand, Daddy.
F: Why did that bee do that?
D: It was threatened and scared. It didn’t know better; so, it stung you.
C: It didn’t know, Fisher. It’s like a baby, see. It didn’t know.
F (handing the picture back to Cory and proving that everyone’s a critic): But, where are the wings?
C (hesitating and then taking the picture back): I can draw the wings. You want me to draw the wings?
F (still crying through): Yes, please.
Cory returns with the finished product, to which Fisher responds…
F: Thanks, Cory.
C: Do you feel better now?
F: Uh huh. Now that I can see the wings. A bee has to have wings. Otherwise, how do you know?
A half hour of ice packs, several Daddy hugs, and two more pictures from his sister (a flower in a box that Fisher felt needed more petals and a very geometric fish that Fisher felt needed more fins), and Fisher is back up and running.