Monday, November 26, 2007

War is Declared

My boys are conspiring against me. I am outnumbered and alone, and they are up there, prowling about in the blackness. I can hear them moving heavy furniture and engaging in their ghastly, mind-bending conversation:

Son 1: "What are you doing?"
Son 2: "Nuffink."
Son 1: "Where is Henry's tender?" [NOTE: Henry is a train engine of the Thomas the Tank Engine breed. Their Henry is a generic, green, faceless train that they have named Henry.]
Son 2: "You put poo-poo on Henry's tender. Wee-membah?"
Son 1: "No! No! I do NOT put poo-poo on Henry's tender." [NOTE: See blog entry "Little Poo-Poo Snowballs With Wheels." It was actually not Henry's tender, but another tender altogether. However, his indignation pales at the ignominy of the actual act.]
Son 2: "Yes you did."
Son 1: "No! No! Ghrhrhghgkgga!"
Son 2: "Winkie party! Winkie party!"
Son 1: "I got a winkie."
Son 2: "My winkie is gonna go to Gramma's house. My winkie's getting out!"
Son 1: "Where are mein nickels? In mein cozy?" [Nickels: nipples. Cozy: footed fleece pyjamas.]

A little while ago they both came out, and they had clearly concocted a scheme together. This scares me, because they are only two and four years old. How sly can they be? However, they had worked out an elaborate sting operation called "Criss-cross Applesauce" in which each claimed a terrible, gnawing hunger, and then worked strenuously to back each other up. A web of lies, my friends, and I was the prey.

Feigning an empathy of which I'm sure he is incapable, the older one said of the younger: "Look, mommy, his tummy is empty. Feed my bruvvah!" The younger one lay there with sad, hungry eyes--expertly coached, no doubt. Next, the elder was groaning and complaining of an empty tummy, while the younger piped up: "Dat's right. He didna eat his dinnah, mommy. No 'ee didn't!"

So flummoxed was I at the thought that they might not have eaten, that they were both telling the absolute truth--and might actually be STARVING and about to DIE--that I went up and gave them a half-eaten bag of pretzels. That's right, I handed the boys a bag of pretzels.

But now the truth is out. The babysitter has informed me in confidence that both ate a hearty meal at a neighbor's house. Revenge shall be sweet for this little piece of trickery. But how? I must sow discord. I must divide their fledgling allegiance.

I can hear the crackle of the empty pretzel bag now. My ire grows.

Perhaps I shall poke or whack one discreetly and then say that his brother did it?

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Dear PP,

Perfidious treachery! Oh, the humanity of it all! That the two of them, acting in concert and with deceptive intent, should actually conspire to lie, and in essence actually rend the basic fabric of the truth, in order to gain mere food--the mind boggles! "Criss-Cross Applesauce" has been entered into The Big Database at HQ, and I'd like to see the mangy wee buggins try THAT little scam again! As to the "winkie party" and search for "mein nickels" in "mein cozy," the translators are still at work, hand in hand with the child psych team and an elderly witch. We'll suss it out yet!

Actually, the revealing dialogue, and indeed the strange & hilarious utterences of your children in general, have become one of my favorite features of your fine blog--please, more of same! What do they actually DO and audibly SAY on a daily basis? It always makes me giggle like a schoolgirl--a quite large, middle-aged schoolgirl.

Homeland Insecurity, NH Branch