My 7-year-old son has decided the honeymoon is over with his 2-year-old brother.
Until recently, my older son tolerated the baby’s many eccentricities — like befriending “snakes” made of Play-Doh and carrying umbrellas on sunny days.
“I love you, Bubba,” my 2-year-old would say, hugging his brother’s neck so hard he gritted his teeth.
“I love you, too, Bubba,” his big brother would respond, embracing the little one and gently stroking his blond hair.
“Aw, Baby, look at these two,” I’d call out to my wife, basking in the satisfaction of fathering two perfect children.
I should have seen the turbulence coming. The teeth-gritting hug was the baby rehearsing a headlock. The hair stroking by my older son was his way of testing his grip on the back of baby brother’s neck.
I’m not sure when the boys’ Pearl Harbor moment happened, but the war is definitely on. My older son now swears his sibling is a menace who needs to be physically subdued if the Kennedy house is ever to experience lasting peace.
Little brother, for his part, feeds into this perception by acting wacko. His favorite thing is to roll up a little red rug, tuck it under his right arm and run in circles yelling: “Choo choo! Choo choo!”
Because this behavior is so delightfully bizarre, it infuriates his big brother. It is a clear violation of the older boy’s right to the pursuit of happiness, which he defines as watching “Phineas and Ferb” cartoons uninterrupted on the Disney Channel.
Big brother has discovered that, by extending his foot at just the right instant, he can derail our little Chattanooga Choo Choo and send him skidding across the hardwood floor.
You can hear the baby’s response building. There’s a massive inhale that sucks all the oxygen out of the room, followed by an ear-splitting wail.
When he finally gathers his emotions, baby boy shifts into full attack mode. Bottom lip extended, head down and arms overhead like a battering ram, he begins to run, aiming himself at his brother’s solar plexus.
Big brother immediately grabs a Tennessee Titans blanket and throws it over baby’s head. Blinded now but still enraged, the 2-year-old balls up his fists and punches anything in front of him that feels remotely like a brother.
At this point, older brother, fearing the outbreak of a world war involving the parental superpowers, calls in the United Nations.
“Mommy, Daddy, this baby is hitting me!” he says plaintively. “Make him stop.”
“What did you do to him?” I ask my older son instinctively, arriving from another room.
This is where the song and dance begins.
“Well, I was sitting here watching ‘Phineas and Ferb,’ and this baby just starts screaming and hitting me with his fists for no reason,” my older son reports.
“Um-hum,” I said. “What strange behavior. It’s hard to believe he’s related to you, isn’t it, Mr. Perfect.”
“He’s crazy,” the 7-year-old insists, turning his attention back to the television.
At this point, all I can do is sigh and invoke Popsicle diplomacy — cherry for the 7-year-old and Creamsicle for the baby.
Minutes later, they’re back on the couch together, under the blanket, all lovey-dovey.
“I love you, Bubba,” says one.
“I love you, too, Bubba,” says the other.
Give me a break.
Kennedy is the content editor of the Times Free Press Life sections and writes the “Life Stories” column. Previously, he was the first Sunday editor of the Times Free Press. Before Chattanooga’s newspapers were merged in 1999, Kennedy was the coordinating editor of the Chattanooga Times, where he had previously been an education reporter, feature writer and team leader. His first newspaper job was as sports editor of the Cleveland (Tenn.) Daily Banner. Kennedy’s human ...
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