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?