More of our words being used against us

Part of the problem I have with blogging more frequently than a blue moon eclipsing the sun is that I keep holding out for those undeniable gems that really, truly must be shared with everyone I know. The sad thing is that having two boys ages four and five provides ample material for the average blog, and it's only my blog-snobbery that prevents me from spewing forth our daily comedy.

Take, for example, a scene from about a month ago now, when I had the kids on my own for the weekend. At some point on Sunday I looked toward the back seat of the car at Ben, who had stretched a green rubber band around his head like the most uncomfortable hair band I could imagine. What caught my attention, though - rubber band misuse being pretty standard fare with these two - was some hair that was sticking up from the crown of Ben's head. Not because of the rubber band - no, out of his earlobe-length mop emerged an Alfalfa-esque tuft of hair only an inch and a half long at most. Ben denied any knowledge of its existence, but I had a feeling that was somewhat less than true.

Later that evening I asked him again if something had happened, or if he or someone else had cut it. Ian, as if reminded of some great hilarity I shouldn't have missed, chirped, "Yeah, Ben cut it!" Ben responded to my raised eyebrow with a downcast expression that is as good as a signed, notarized confession to an interrogating parent. For whatever reason, he'd taken his craft scissors and chosen a lock of hair at a particularly unfortunate location, just for laughs or kicks or whatever else motivates five-year-olds. Not that he's the first, of course; Sarah knew of a girl who cut off an entire pigtail at a birthday party, and it was on someone else's head. The real kicker in this case was the further detail Ian provided: "Then he threw it under the couch!"

But hair grows back, and bad haircuts fade into memory, at least until the photos come out for high school graduation.

What probably won't go away, however, is Ben's uncanny ability to use our parenting tactics against us. The time he got the timer to make sure I didn't dawdle preparing dinner was funny, but now his knack for bending the word of the law to flaunt its spirit (or at least our intended purposes) has made me wonder if there's an attorney gene that we've somehow passed to him.

We base a lot of rules on age. Ben is five, so time-outs are five minutes long, and he has to eat five pieces of carrot or broccoli with dinner. Ian gets a pass on vegetables because he's only four, and we didn't get harsh on eating habits until Ben was five. Of course we wonder what we'll do when Ian turns five, since his diet is about as varied as that of a panda bear - and with less fiber.

Which brings us to today. Getting out of the house is usually an ordeal, since there is no priority lower in the mind of a four- or five-year-old boy than getting dressed. Nudity, furthermore, is de facto hilarious, and usually sparks fits of mirth that are either infectious or infuriating depending on how much time we have. This morning they ignored my entreaties to put their clothes on while I gathered their library books, and were running laps of the coffee table like ancient Olympians when I came downstairs. By that point I had lost my patience (or its tattered remnants), so I snapped at Ben, "Why do I have to ask you to do everything five times?!"

And the little brat said, "But I'm five..."