I thought it might be too early for Beau to be over-producing hormones for himself, but I’m seeing that’s not quite the case.
He’s heading towards the heavy end of eight years of age. Monday afternoon I picked him up from school and he waved and smiled, then threw his bag at me to carry it.
Chick mimicked but just for fun, or at least that’s what I’m lead to believe.
At home, Beau stomped around the back yard whinging no one would play soccer with him in the sultry heat. Tears flowed easily when there was a mini altercation with the ball and his brother. Mini men screaming and running scared of each other in the back yard. Thumps and pushing, tears and yelps – mixed in with me yelling out to calm down. It was heated. I always seem to have tongs in my hand when I’m yelling for peace. I look like some crazed man shaking uncooked sausage meat and pork steaks after two boys and a soccer ball.
I asked the men to grab the salad stuff on the bench and bring it outside for dinner. Chick stacked up the piles of corn, beetroot and pasta and wobbled outside. Beau stormed into his room, slammed the door, twice – the first not quite creating the sonic boom he was after.
I waved him off and left him in there. Chick and I ate quietly at the table outside and chewed in boy silence. Dawn was late.
I could feel the storm behind me when Beau threw himself into the chair where there was no plate waiting. So I align a pork’d up plate in front of him – only for him to move to another seat.
Shower time, he waits at the door as I check the water and then waits for me to leave so I can’t see his private bits – he’s almost exasperated by the time I get the water right.
Chickles still dances around with his clothes off to get in the shower and wants me to wash his hair. He swipes his tiny bum with the washcloth and successfully throws it at my face. I gingerly pray he wiped his bottom properly the last time he went to the loo.
Dawn arrives home and we joke about Beau’s macho rants and stubborn refusal to do what he’s told.
I put the boys to bed, no baby cuddles for Beau, but forehead kisses and a back rub. Chick still wants to be tucked in with the sheet and shook so he can laugh at his shaking falsetto voice. His little hand pops out of his sheets and grabs my shorts to keep me from leaving.
I get in the car and drive home. A text comes through, a picture message – a post it with writing from the little man. ‘I want my dad’ he writes.
The big guy is still chewing on his hormones I’m sure of it. Well, at least until pocket money delivery time on the weekend.
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