"I making fwoot sayad foh ev-wee body. Eben Eefan, eben Adam. "
Jonah proudly chopped clumsy banana chunks to add to the bowl of apple slices. He repeated his declaration to everyone who walked through the kitchen, but I'm probably the only one that knew it's deeper meaning.
A week or so earlier Jonah was mad. "My bwudohs mean! Dey not yet me watch dem pyay bideo dames!" Just as well, I don't want him watching skateboarding killer robots or whatever they play on their xbox.
"Want a banana?" I extended an invitation in hopes of distracting him, to which he replied, "Tan I make fwoot sayad?"
"Sure," I answered, relieved that resetting his mood-meter had been so simple.
"I dunnah make fwoot sayad foh you, foh Daddy, foh Ellie-Tessa (when he speaks of both girls, it is in the Hollywood Beniffer, Branjalina way), foh Na-no-nie, but not foh Eefan, not foh Adam! Dey mean!"
In his pint-sized world the only way he felt he could get back at his brothers was through fruit-deprivation. Boy, I sure hope I don't make him mad at me; I like me my bananas.
Weeks later he remembered the hurt, but as little ones do (always so much better than we Bigs), he had gotten past it. That second bowl of diced fruit was Forgiveness Fruit Salad. And of course, it was much sweeter.