A matter of semantics

"Bam, kapow, bam, bam, bam!" exclaims Big Dog as he pummels his father's arm with his mighty blows. Our boys are rambunctious and filled with energy. At the time of this specific incident they were hyped up with the over stimulation of a Seahawks game.

"Hey," I hopped in to defend Mr. Dog, "Don't hit your dad."

"I wasn't hitting him."

"Really?" Mr. Dog asks, rubbing his assaulted arm. "So what was that?"

"Punching."

Then Little Dog gets in on the act. "Bam, bam, pow, kapow, bam!" as he peppers his dad arm with his own flurry of fist falls.

"Don't punch your dad!" I say, knowing that whatever the big brother does, the little brother is likely to imitate.

"I wasn't punching!" he insists.

"No? So what was that then?"

"Hitting."

Technicalities.

Giving me the finger

Big Dog has recently developed an infatuation with giving things a big thumbs up.  Ask him how he's doing, thumbs up.  Ask him if his dinner is good, thumbs up.  Ask him if he's finished with his coloring, thumbs up. Sometimes it comes without prompting. He'll just be sitting there and decide it seems like a time for a thumbs up.

So as with all things his big brother does in our house, Little Dog has taken a liking to it as well.  But he's missing a key part of the gesture.  Tonight after dinner, when Little Dog and Big Dog were heading outside to play in the sandbox Big Dog flashed his thumbs up.  Little Dog copied him, but instead flashed an index finger.  In a very sweet and big brotherly way, Big Dog says, "No, not that finger. Your thumb.  Like this," and he demonstrated the gesture again.  Little Dog inspected it, and once again pointed his index finger.  A couple more attempts with sibling coaching, and he finally got it right.  When his big brother praised him, his face lit up with pride. And I give that a big thumbs up.

Peace on Earth for $18.95 (plus tax)

Weekends at the Dog house are often filled with heated property wars. One small hand prying a chosen toy out of an even smaller hand. Shouts of "MINE" followed by shouts of "NO" followed by physical attacks and crying or screaming. Ah, the golden days!

And yet, as I sit here writing this, I'm watching my two boys play calmly on the floor with a selection of overpriced wooden Thomas the Tank Engine trains. How have I managed to create this blissful peace in my home? I bought Little Dog a train of his own. Little Dog is now the proud owner of Henry, the big green engine. I let Big Dog help pick it out, and made a big show of "both of my boys getting a brand new train!" Had I known that was all it would take, I would have shelled out the cash long ago.

Oh, wait, it's over. They're back to killing each other. In fact, Little Dog just used his new train to bash Big Dog in the head. Well, back to the drawing board.

Little Dog Saves the Day

The newest game in our house involves a preschooler in distress and a helpful younger brother. Big Dog has decided that it is big fun to tip over his wheely bug and declare "My ladybug is RUINED", throw his hands up in the air and flop down on the ground.

Little Dog has decided to alter this game slightly, now when his brother feigns disaster, Little Dog hops up and runs to the rescue. He rights the wheely bug and runs off, like a superhero who needs no thanks.

And Big Dog's response? "What a clever baby!"

Where do they get this stuff?