Oh, boy(s)

So often, as parents, you see yourself reflected in your children. This can be readily apparent, of course--such as Derek being built tall and thin like his father, or both boys inheriting exactly the same shade of blue eyes that I have. Or it may show up in more subtle ways...Derek's easygoing personality (from Husband, obviously) or Riley's stubborn streak (from...um, gosh, I have no idea! And the sarcasm? They earned that from both parties, so we're doomed...) But it sometimes happens that your beloved offspring, the ones you lovingly carried for nine months and joyfully brought into this world...suddenly behave like bizarre creatures you don't even recognize...leaving you scratching your head in bewilderment, wondering if they'd been switched overnight with some changelings...or just dropped on their heads during school hours.

Can you tell, this was one of those nights? I suppose it all started when the brothers decided to have a good old-fashioned Nerf War (kinda like a Turf War--except it's inside...and uses attack-items that are more...spongy, than deadly). You see, they've slowly been acquiring foam weaponry over the last several months, culminating in Derek receiving a hatchet for Easter (and yes, I realize how absolutely ridiculous that sounds...but Jesus was a young boy, once, so he might understand?) and a sword for his birthday. Well, then, there's really nothing to do but whale on your sibling for some wholesome afternoon fun! I made sure to stay well out of range, but could hear the whooping and giggling through the closed bedroom door as they battled fiercely. (Although for what reward, precisely, I couldn't tell you. The honorable claim to Derek's laundry pile? The privilege of lying on his bed? Because trust me, there were no fair maidens to impress, in the vicinity of Chez Derek.) But suddenly there came a cry of pain, followed by an abrupt halt in the skirmish. Then Derek stalked into my room and announced quite huffily, "Riley hit me with the hatchet...in the balls!" He fairly bubbled over with righteous indignation, but my response was a decidedly unsympathetic, "Yeah? And?" As in: what did you expect to happen in this close-quarters, no-mercy duel situation? And what the heck do you think I should do about it? Issue a Royal Disqualification of Knight Riley? Oh, and by the way, it's a SQUISHY TOY, how much could it hurt? (Says the only person in the house without...male parts. The message was clear: "Eh, shake it off, dude!" Am I a jaded Mother of Boys? Why yes, yes I am!) So, not having achieved the satisfactory response he sought, he turned and slunk back to his room...but I noticed that a cease-and-desist was called. (Meanwhile, Riley brought me a neatly-written list...of Nerf playthings he wishes to add to his "armory". Should my 8-1/2 year old even know that word, much less how to use it properly? Even worse, these most-wanted tools-of-destruction include: something called a Vendetta Double Sword...and a Battlemaster Mace Ax. Oh. Dear. I sense many more head-to-head clashes in our immediate future. No one's ever gone to the Emergency Room with a grave...styrofoam injury...though, right?)

Then, later in the evening--when it was almost bedtime, as a matter of fact--Riley went completely off the deep end. From the top of the stairs, I caught a random comment about--I'm not making this up--smelling someone's armpit. Why, oh why, can't I just pretend to miss these things? I could play the "selective hearing" card and just fail to acknowledge it! But nooooo, that never happens. Instead, I instantly yelled up to him, "There will be no smelling of armpits!" (Really? Like that even needs to be stated? Oh well, too late now...) Evidently Riley, in his giddy pre-wind-down state of hysteria, thought it would be an excellent plan to systematically sniff each of his family members. Like some kind of...B.O.-detecting dog, or some such nonsense. I really couldn't tell you what his ultimate goal was...training his nose to discriminate odors? Clearing his sinuses?) Since I had just showered, he reported the scent of: soap. (Whew! I guess I passed.) On Derek, he announced, he got a whiff of: shirt. Then he stuck his nose right up next to Husband's...underarm area...and proclaimed that his nose found "shirt...with a hint of armpit." (As if judging the aroma of fine cuisine--I swear he's cut off from watching any more Food Network shows from now on!) As we all laughed at his silliness (and wondered if he'd secretly gotten into some Dr. Pepper after dinner, because honestly he was a wee bit manic at this point) he did an about-face and squeaked, "Oh no, don't look at me, I don't want to draw attention to myself!" He punctuated this absurd sentence by covering his eyes, racing over to Derek, and cowering behind his brother's back. (Derek, it should be noted, was fairly useless by now, laughing so hard he was having difficulty remaining upright on the kitchen stool.) I can only fervently hope that Riley--now safely and quietly in bed--sleeps it off and wakes up...somewhere approaching "normal".

Nights like these, I just scratch my head in disbelief and confusion. I don't know where these monkey-boys came from or what possesses them to act this way. When all else fails, though, I fall back on the tried-and-true explanation: it must be something genetic...from Husband's side!