A Tale of Two Streakers

My boys, Tater, five, and Screamsy, almost three, could not be a more oddly matched pair of brothers.

Sure, they look alike; but all our kids do.

One: their mom is a good woman; and two: both Knute and I have similar Heinz 57 heritages of mostly Irish ancestors with a dash of German (makes us uber-detail oriented), a smidge of Dutch (Knute is oddly fascinated by those wooden shoes), and a bit of English (I've been known to do a spot-on British accent when I've tied on a few).

Tater and Screamsy get lots of comments these days when I'm out with both of them in tow, mostly of the Boy, they could be twins! variety.

But this mama knows that those boys are as different as night and day.

Tater is easy going*; Screamsy is...well, he's just not.**

Tater is a man of few words and many hugs; Screamsy spends his timeouts on the bottom stair hollering about how unfair life is, how he doesn't like timeouts, and how he wants me to just GO AWAY!

Tater is happy to sit and color for hours (something that came in handy while he was in the hospital last week); Screamsy is a pinball of toddler energy, running from one thing to the next as he chatters to himself in a constant monologue.

There are times, though, when they are as alike as the proverbial peas in a pod.

There are the giggles over farts. It doesn't matter from which brother it was ripped; all that matters is the loudness and intensity.

There is also their mutual love of Legos, Cars, Spiderman, and dirt.

And then there is their shared joy in the nightly ritual of Post-Bath-Streaking.

While Tater races one way to do the birthday suit dance in his room, Screamsy dashes away from Knute and his waiting pjs to do his own wee jig sans undies. It takes Knute (for he is the MacDaddy of the Bath), five minutes or so to get them firmly ensconced in nighttime apparel.

I watch those boys, those silly little men hopping around, slapping their bellies as they giggle and holler, and find myself hoping they'll grow up not just as brothers, but as best friends.

Or at least as streaking buddies.***

Marianne

*He really is, but now that he's been on a bunch of steroids for his lungs, we're seeing the Hulk side of Tater. Still a sweetheart of a boy, but aggressively so, like, MOMMY, I'm going to HUG you RIGHT NOW, followed by a lunging tackle of love.

**To give him credit, the poor kid hasn't turned three yet. He's still allowed to be a screaming mess of a human being for a little while longer. I'm biding my time.

***Mental note: must send boys to same college.