He got dirty.

I love age 2

There are some moments in life that are so beautiful and so funny it’s hard to do anything but soak them in. For example, I love how our two-year old is testing and trying out his language skills; battling his way to fresh sounds and syllables with Rocky-level determination. One of the big things he’s navigating is not only the joy of individual words and sentences, but the joy of using those words and sentences in causal types of ways. Such as learning how to tell on his brother.

He has three older siblings, but as animals often do, he recognizes that the one closest to him in age and size is the one easiest to take down - or try to take down. No matter how much we actively encourage empathy, kindness, compassion, and supportive mindsets amongst our siblings, there is still something simply hilarious about hearing a two-year old inform on his older-times-two brother.

He comes stumbling up, pointing, gesturing, gasping in enthusiasm as he reaches deep down in his reservoir of language to pull up the right notes.

Note: he refers to his next-older brother as “Der-Der.”

He points at his bro, then looks back at me. Repeat multiple times. “Der-Der,” he says breathlessly. “Der-Der is, is…Der-Der got…he got…”

“Your brother got what?” I ask, not entirely patiently, as we stand on the front porch, twenty feet from where he and the target of his forthcoming accusation have been happily playing in their makeshift kitchen filled with mud, twigs, leaves, mud, branches, old utensils, mud, pine needles, dead flowers, mud, dirt, old containers, and some mud; items which are an ongoing front yard reminder that our family would probably not be the darlings of a neighborhood with a Home Owners Association and its accompanying expectations of generic beautification, most of which involve not having Mud be a primary point of interest in a front yard.

“Der-Der got,” he says, fighting for the right word. “Der-Der got…”
he pauses to wipe his muddy hands on his freshly laundered jeans. “Der-Der got dirty.”

“Der-Der got dirty?” I say sort of sternly, as if this was a revelation.

”Yeaaaah!” He turns it into a half dozen syllables. “Der-Der got reaaaaallly dirty!”

“Thank you for letting me know,” I say approvingly, as I send him back to the mud kitchen to ideally not get dirty alongside his dirty brother.

I love age 4

His older brother - the legendary and above-referenced “Der-Der” has also been starting many sentences with the prologue “…for some reason.”

Examples might include:
“For some reason, I really like to play outside in my kitchen.”
“For some reason, it’s really cold out today, and can I have some hot chocolate?”
“For some reason, I really feel like watching Wild Kratts.”
”For some reason, I feel like eating a banana. For some reason, I don’t understand why bananas are yellow and oranges are orange?”

It’s a little addicting. Try it. Take it for a test run in the next conversation you engage in. Preface every several sentences with “For some reason…”

I love age 11

The legendary figure referenced above - that would be “Der-Der” - also has an older bro. Seven years his senior, our four-year old has somehow, over the last several months, decided that his older brother is an expert and an authority.

An expert and authority on what?

On a lot of things. Certainly an expert, according to his 4-year old disciple, on anything relating to art, animals, aesthetics, nature, or the outdoors. But today, today, we entered a new era. The era which signals an attempted coup in not just expertise, but in authority.

The four-year old - we shall continue referring to him as Der-Der - brushed past me in the entryway without a glance or excuse me, which is a separate topic I shall address some other time.

Where are you going? I asked, which seems within the realm of my role as parent to a 4-year old to inquire about.

I’m just going outside, he said,
cobbling together a pair of shoes from the several dozen piled up around us.

Oh. I said. I mean, didn’t I just tell you to finish your chores? We still have some things to finish in here, so -

-he finally looked up, cutting me off kindly as he shoved his feet into two different shoes belonging to different people, both of which somehow surmounted the fifty-percent odds and managed to both go on the incorrect feet…

…well, he said quickly, confidently, as he marched to the front door and threw it open, Johannes gave me permission to go outside and see the cats, so it’s okay.

Whoa whoa whoa, I said. So, you’re brushing me off and not talking to me about this, because your older brother gave you permission?

He looked at me with the questioning, insolent impatience of a music auteur looking at someone’s who’s just suggested the Beatles are overrated, and he said,

Yeah! Johannes gave me permission, so…it’s okay.

At this point, the ability to speak left me temporarily, and by the time it returned the boy was out in the front yard muddy wild, looking for cats. But it’s okay. It’ll be okay. He’ll be okay.

His older brother gave him permission. Probably told him he could get dirty too.

I guess my job as a parent is starting to wind down at this point in life. Baton being handed over.