Oh Brother!

Of course I love him dearly. He is after all my middle child, and though it is by marriage, I love him just the same. However, he is 21 years old and anyone with children know that right around year 15,  a demon takes possession of their bodies and holds them teen-napped until the early to mid-twenties. It is during this period in life that we come to learn and understand the concept of love and loathing at the same time.

Now my baby boy is five. Yes, it is a whopping 16 year spread, and my little boy adores this big brother. He can do no wrong in his eyes, no matter how hard I try to tarnish that image. Why would I, you say? Well, maybe it is because he has flunked out of college three times and feels that 24 hour video gaming is the life-- though that is not something I would tell his baby brother. Then, there is the fact that he has turned what used to be MY basement office … with a fireplace and walk out patio… into a bona fide pigsty of a bedroom and malodorous dog kennel (for the horse-sized dog that he brought home with him from college).  But I would never say that to my five year old either.

And did I mention that the dog is barely trained (translation horse-sized poop), and has not been snipped. He eyes me like a piece of meat. My poor little miniature schnauzer screams and runs every time he makes a break for her. My child thinks it’s humorous – I do not!

Also, son number two (there is actually another one even older) seems to have a neurological disorder affecting his memory. It is the darnedest thing.  He can’t seem to find the kitchen for returns even though he has no problem finding it in the middle of the night when he raids the fridge of all things edible (most recently it was my diet crackers and fat free rubber tasting cheese slices). So I watch as our glass collection, plates, and silver count diminishes over the course of a few days until I am forced against my psychological will to enter the dungeon. It becomes a scavenger hunt, or should I say excavation, as I dig under piles of clothing and beneath furniture to see what treasures I can find. I do not know why, but I always feel like I have hit the Jackpot as I head upstairs with my arms ladened with dirty, crusted plates and glasses.

On Saturdays, I constantly tell my baby boy to be quiet because his brother is still asleep, even though it is three o’clock in the afternoon. Inside my mind, I am silently hoping he will be annoyed that he can’t make noise. However, all that my child does is ask me if his brother is nocturnal. 

Sometimes I tell my little son who is dying to talk to him, to go ahead and say hello at 8:00 AM on a Sunday morning, only to have my child say, “That’s okay mommy, he is still asleep!” I even send him down below on occasion to seek help with his DS. Only to have him boomerang right back up to me with, “He was busy, here, you do it mommy!”

 And when son number two finally emerges from the depths around seven pm foraging for food, my child lights up like Times Square. Imagine my annoyance when he picks him up, calls him buddy a couple of times, Hi-fives him and heads back into the cave. And my child, who has waited for 20 hours for his appearance, the way a fan waits outside a concert venue stage door for their favorite star, is happy and satisfied for those ten minutes of affection.

So why then was I surprised by his unpredictable response yesterday? My son had asked for a bowl of Coco Puffs. I said we are out. He countered with, "No we're not; you just bought it." I smiled and was happy to reply, "Yes we are… your brother ate it all!" My baby boy, who typically loves the ground I walk on, too, refused to admonish his idol. Instead, with venom in his little five year old eyes, he turned to me accusingly and growled, "WHY DIDN'T YOU BUY THE BIG BOX!"