What Are Little Brothers For?

Bear with me if this post seems a little more disjointed than usual. I’m battling the first head cold of the season, and I’m possibly over-medicated and under-caffeinated. It’ll be fine though, I’ve mistletoe and grass clippings over the sunset seventeen times alrea……

Ergh. Sorry.


The Narrator is in full ‘losing baby teeth’ mode. He’s lost four or five already, and has yanked a few of them out like a champion. His latest one though, has been hanging on by a thread for a few days already. The back was out, but the front was still pretty attached. He liked playing with it, so never bothered to ‘reverse direction of the wiggle’ so the stuck part stayed stuck. Every day I came home from work I’d ask him if he’d gotten the tooth out yet. “Nope!” he would say, then grin his gappy, goofy little grin, the tooth in question leaning like a derelict fence post in front of a haunted house.

Cue Mini-Me.

Mini-Me is a rambunctious little child. He can’t sit still for more than a few moments at a time. It is safe to say that if he’s awake, he’s moving. And if he’s moving, he’s MOVING. The kid is in full ‘action-movie’ mode most of the day. He’s spinning, leaping, running, crashing into things constantly. He also roughhouses. A lot. His idea of ‘being gentle’ is not head-butting you in the groin while you try to walk to the kitchen. He’s not being mean, he just throws himself at you like a stuntman trying to earn a pay raise.

His list of priority targets are:

Me. Many time of the day am I forced to contend with a screeching three year old hurling himself at me through space and time at velocities that would make superman envious.

His brother. Countless are the instances where the little one lets out a war-whoop which is immediately followed by a scream of terror, pain, and not a little enjoyment from the big one. If you happen to come into the room after one of these ear-splitting exchanges of sound, you’ll find the two of them locked in a tangle of elbows, knees, feet, heads, and hands, surrounded by a cocoon of even more noise. Laughter mostly. Sometimes sheer agony.

The cats. For some reason, we cannot get it into his head that the two cats we have are not fond of being tackled, squeezed, tugged on, or even bothered. He’s suffered a few nips and scratches, but the lesson doesn’t sink in.

On this particular day, our little dare-devil chose his brother to attack. As usual, he let out a screech that was half rebel-yell and half demon-bellow, and charged the unsuspecting Narrator. A tumult ensued, and a tiny knee rammed into the face of the six-year old.

“Ah! He knocked my tooth out!” 

The Narrator turned, holding a piece of his head in one hand, his mouth bloody and even more gappy.

Tiny immediately backed off.

“Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Mommy, I don’t want a time out!” 

Nobody cried or got really hurt, and after we cleaned up The Narrator and calmed down Mini-me, I realized that this is simply another by-product of having boys. Constant, good-natured violence is blossoming into a frequent part of our lives.

I just home we don’t see anything more serious than a baby-took getting knocked out, but you never can tell can you?


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