Clinton is a tiny baby, I am holding in my arms, snuggled to my chest. He is so long! His little legs and feet dangle below my elbow. I am gazing into his cute little face when all of a sudden his expression changes. He is unhappy! His tiny mouth opens in a yowl! Oh no! What is it? Gas? Is he hungry? Am I holding him too tight? I loosen my arms and look down at his legs and then feet. But, where his cute little toes should be, is my 18 month old, Ethan. Big blue eyes looking up at me with 3 of his brother’s toes in his mouth. He is biting down viciously, like he’s eating corn on the cob. “Ethan!” I say squeezing his cheeks to open his jaw. I inspect Clinton’s little foot. Rub at the indentations 4 tiny teeth have made in the skin. “No!” I tell him, “Don’t bite your brother! He is not food!”
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Ethan is standing in the grocery basket, Clinton is in the top baby seat. We are in the check out line at Safeway. Ethan is officially a talker by this point. It’s like one day he opened his mouth and whole sentences, full paragraphs, had been waiting to come out. Clinton is more of a mumbler and a howler and a chewer. When we roll up to the cash register I am trying to keep the contents of my purse out of Clinton’s mouth. Ethan ignored the checker and instead addresses the cute girl who starts to bag our groceries. “Hi!” he says to her. “Uh, hi,” she says, a little startled at Ethan’s forwardness. “What’s your name?” he asks her. Her eyes widen, “Tiffany.” Ethan smiles, waggles his eyebrows. Who knew a two and a half year old could waggle? “Hi Tiffany. I’m Ethan, the big boy. I go pee-pee in the potty.” Waggle, waggle, waggle, waggle-waggle. “Oh God, Ethan,” I say handing money to the checker, while keeping my keys out of Clinton’s mouth and him screeching in disagreement. “Well, good for you, Ethan,” Tiffany says and I push the basket away. The checker, the bagger and the lady who was behind us cracking up. “I think she likes me mommy.” “Yes, son, I’m sure she does.” Clinton- grumble grumble grumble “YOWL!”
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Clinton is a toddler, just barely walking. Ethan is in preschool. Clinton has a little toy in his hands, totally enraptured by it. Ethan walks over, if it were possible for a three year old to have the cognitive awareness to be smug about knowing how to walk in a straight line, Ethan had it. He takes the toy away from Clinton without a word and goes over to the other side of the living room. I am on the couch watching, waiting for Clinton to scream bloody murder that his toy has been taken. Instead, Clinton starts to crawl towards his brother, if a baby could have a John Wayne swagger to his crawl, it would be Clinton. He reaches Ethan and without saying a word, sinks his teeth into his brother’s butt cheek. Now I wait for Ethan to scream bloody murder since he has just been bitten in the ass by his brother. But, instead, he looks down, points to his bruised butt cheek, and says firmly, “No Clinty! Not food!”
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The boys are both in their car seats. I am driving our silver Volvo station wagon down the alley behind our apartment building. Ethan has a slight fever, but I have to go to work and am taking them to their father for the night. Ethan starts repeating Mommy over and over again. I look in the rearview and see his flushed red cheeks, sweaty brow, “Oh honey, I’m sorry you don’t feel good.” “Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy…” and then a pause. The sound of vomiting fills the car. Ethan hurls his little guts out. It splashes on the back of my seat onto him. Clinton looks over. Looks at me, looks back at Ethan, and then promptly throws up. Ethan lifts his arms from his car seat, covered in both his brother’s and his own puke, and throws up again. Which, in turn, sets off Clinton. I’ve stopped the car by now. Feeling completely helpless as my babies take turns hurling in the back seat. I put the wagon in reverse, head back down the alley and pull into our parking spot. The boys are both crying hard; beside themselves with gross sticky this is so not okayness, so I get out, take a deep breathe of fresh air, get the hose, open both of the car doors. With them still strapped into their car seats I hose them and the back seat down. It’s summer in Sacramento so everything, including the tap water, is warm. Ethan is the most shocked. “Mommy,” he says, soaking wet but a lot less sticky and smelly, “I hate food.” “If I were you kid, I would hate food, too.”
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The boys are both preschoolers now. We are at the park running around in the autumn air. I am in community college and one of my instructors is also at the park. “Hi, are these your boys?” she asks as she approaches us. Ethan runs up to her before I can respond: “Hi! I’m Ethan, The Big Boy, I like your bike, are you a teacher? I like teachers. My mom is smart. I am smart. I’m 4 years old. I like the park. Are you going to ride the slide? It’s sticky.” She laughs and looks at me. “That is Ethan,” I say. Clinton is hiding behind his brother, distrustful of all strangers, he hangs back, lets Ethan do the talking. “Is this your brother,” she asks, smiling at Clinton, “what is his name?” Ethan eagerly responds with, “Yes, he’s my brother, his name is…” He begins to say Clinton, but once the C is out he pauses briefly then continues, “C-C-Cantaloupe.” My eyebrows lift in disbelief. Ethan is eyeing the woman with a sideways glance, like is she going to believe me? He’s trying to look earnest, but is too giddy about possibly getting away with something. “Cantaloupe?” she exclaims, “Well…” and she is about to say something, but Clinton pipes up. Hands tiny fists at his sides, face crumpled up, and in his little 3 year old self, speech impediment and all, asserts: “Cantaloupe! I no cantaloupe! I Clinty-Winty-Wo-Wo-Woo!” and ran off yelling, “I not a food!”
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