Charles: You know what I call Jamie?
Me: The most adorable little brother in the whole world, whom you love so, so much and who is your bestest best friend forever?
Charles: Nooooo! I call him Jamie Pooper!
Me: Well, that’s accurate, at least.
And Jamie’s all, “Get me out of here!”
The boys have reached the point in their relationship where I have to leave the room, routinely. The play so hard, you guys. I’m always afraid one of them is going to get hurt, but I know that I have to let them wrestle and fall and jump. Last night they played a “game” in which Charles came tearing through the house, Jamie following him as fast as his little legs could carry him, and then Charles would fall and slide on the laminate floor. Jamie would do this adorable controlled fall to his padded little butt and then look up at his brother while Charles dissolved into peals of laughter.
It’s so stinking cute, the way they play. Jamie can almost keep up, but Charles doesn’t seem to mind – he loves playing and loves the company and loves being in charge. It’s always, ahem, active play, too, with squealing and thumping and things falling down. It is, apparently, a great game to throw as many toys and shoes down the stairs as they can find.
But I still don’t get it. I would never think to show affection for another person by wrestling with them, deliberately tripping them or pushing them down, or by taking their toys and throwing them as far away as possible. I guess that’s just boys for you. That’s why mom tends to hang out in the kitchen, occasionally offering up such gems as, “Don’t pull your brother’s arms like that! Don’t take off his clothes! Don’t jump on the clean laundry!” until I just decide that’s it’s not worth it to pay any more attention to their shenanigans. Eventually, they’ll come ask me for food and then we can be a little bit civilized. For a minute or two.