Getting the boys dressed in the morning has become a Ultimate Fighting Championship Event. The diaper changing, shirt putting-on and shoe-ing is punctuated with fisticuffs, gunfights and jousting.
One might ask, justifiably, if perhaps letting a nearly-five-year-old engage in fisticuffs with his baby brother might be a wee tad bit un-even of a fight. One would be wrong in this case. James is... scrappy. Very scrappy. He gives just about as good as he gets-- despite the fact that he's half Judah's size and weight.
He also has the advantage that he makes Jude nearly helpless with laughter. It's really hard to maintain the necessary Superhero-esque focus when a pint-sized fury is running at your knees, screaming "Waaaaargharg!!!!" Judah giggles uncontrollably as James takes him to the floor and pummels his stomach with both tiny fists.
They both love it. They revel in it. The testosterone is almost visible.
But this morning I think perhaps some guidance from an older, wiser and more chivalrous testosterone-producer may be in order after hearing this:
"Here Jamie, I'll be right back. You just shoot Mama instead for a few minutes till I get back."