As I've stated many times before, I didn't have any brothers growing up, so when our first son came along, my expectations of what "little boy" meant may or may not have been largely based on what I'd read about in books and seen on television sitcoms. I don't remember any of those (fictional) boys having a heavy interest in clothes, and yet Atticus insists on picking out his own clothes every day (except for church, I've put my foot down there), which means that most days you'll see him walking around in jeans (he doesn't care for wind pants: "I don't like making noise when I walk, Mom." You're four years old- who cares?), his Vikings jersey (if it's clean), Spiderman socks, and a red necktie. Except I don't know how to tie a necktie, so it's just slung around his neck. I suppose I should just be happy his taste is leaning more toward sporty/dapper and away from sleepwear/drag queen.
Also preoccupied with clothes; our youngest, however, doesn't seem to care as much about cultivating his own sense of fashion as he does about looking as much like Daddy as possible. A while back, Derek had gotten dressed, and Caedmon spent a few moments inspecting his dad's outfit, then announced that he, too, wanted to wear his blue sweater with a Vikings shirt underneath it. On the 5-6 days a week he can't wear that particular outfit, he asks me (all.day.long) where his blue sweater is, and where his purple vikings shirt is, and why he is not wearing them. His tone is always vaguely accusatory, too, like I'm the only thing standing between him and complete oneness with Daddy.
A couple days ago, we were listening to music after supper when Atticus asked to have a song repeated. I did so, then he asked to listen to it again, in part because he loves the song, but also because "Mom, this is the song the other Atticus sings!" I decided that it was okay, but that this was the last time. Adelaide groaned and said, "Mom, now he's never going to stop singing that song, and you don't have to share a room with him and hear it all night long!" I assured her he would probably forget all about it. She didn't believe me. About thirty minutes after bedtime, I went up to check on them. As I walked up the stairs, I could hear Atticus singing, "I will wait, I will wait, for you! *ten second pause* I will wait, I will wait, for you! *ten second pause* I will wait, I will wait, for you!" I peeked around their bedroom door, and was greeted with the sight of Atticus building a block tower, singing happily, and his loving big sister, wedged in the corner, hands clapped over her ears, glaring at her brother, a look of deep loathing on her face.
I don't really know why I didn't expect that. I remember plotting ways to kill my sister in the longest and most torturous fashion possible every time she uttered the word, "Jubilaka." (Oh, what does that word mean, you ask? NOTHING. It means NOTHING. Or, in childhood Kelli's case, it meant everything. "I just feel so Jubilaka." "Oh, Jubilaka, I dropped my spaghetti again!" "Jubilaka, no school today!")
Adelaide also has a game she plays at school with a friend of hers. It's called "Cheetahs." In this game, they pretend to be cheetahs. (Revolutionary, I know.) These cheetahs have special powers, but mostly they're just cheetahs. This is fine. She can play that game aaaalll she wants at school. But when she comes home and refuses to speak to me in anything but yowls and snarls because "Cheetahs don't speak human," and she slinks around the house on all fours, hissing at her brothers, it's not going to take long for this mother to wish she had a rifle and permit to hunt cheetahs.
Kids are weird.