Oh, It's "The Brothers"

Julian and Ian are in week 2 of "Art Camp." I must say, these two boys are having a summer that the Jolie-Pitt kids would have to envy (OK, maybe that's stretching it a little, but almost). Two weeks in the Mediterranean, two weeks being squired about the D.C. area by their Grandmommy to every attraction known to kid-dom, then Science Camp (with a million dollar view of Manhattan from the classroom), and then three weeks of romping around a re-habbed factory space in Hoboken for Art Camp. In between there's been swimming, tennis, camping, you name it. The adults involved are close to passing out.

I even made them a calendar to keep it all straight. I'm a little concerned about the time I spent on this calendar because it can only mean that I'm starting to actively cultivate completely unmarketable skills like, um, being a mother. Ha ha. I can imagine that interview: "But Mr. Top-Rated Marketing Firm Employer, my sons loved that calendar. It took a lot of time to find the little colored icons and perfectly fit them into each box. Isn't that the type of attention-to-detail employee you're looking for? I think you've found her!"

Well, so, Art Camp. When I showed up with them on Day 2, this is how the head teacher greeted us (visual: a high-school girls' basketball coach with a Jamie Lee Curtis haircut but not a Jamie Lee Curtis body).

"Oh, it's the brothers!"

"Yes, it is the brothers," I say, forcing one of those fake-friendly mother smiles and actually wanting to say to her What the hell does that mean?

"So yesterday," the Coach continues, "the brothers stood up in front of ALL the other kids and took a pledge not to hit each other. Didn't you, brothers?"

Now Ian and Julian are looking at her with one of those fake-friendly mother smiles, too.

"Did you tell Mommy about that, brothers? It was great. Wasn't it great, brothers? Everybody clapped!"

I can only imagine my sons' humiliation. It probably ranks only slightly behind having to be spritzed in the hair with an anti-lice spray (but it's all natural, don't worry Mommy) when they first check in every morning.

So ever since that Day 2 dropoff, we get greeted the same way by the Coach.

"Oh, it's the brothers!"

And I get to hear again from the Coach about how they're going to love each other forever and be gentle and not hit ever again for the rest of their lives. Is she delusional? Does she even have brothers?

I'm starting to feel like what she actually wants to say is, "Oh, it's the youngest members of the Taliban who are making a guest appearance at a children's summer camp in America and have miraculously adopted perfect Jersey accents."

It's no wonder Ian and Juli both scream bloody murder every morning when I drop them off. I think tonight I'll teach them how to say "Oh, it's the teacher!" in that same rimmed-with-loathing, Taliban-esque fashion.

What Would Kissinger Do?

I suck at diplomacy. I really do. I applied to attend The American University for a masters in International Service way back in 1994, and at the same time took the State Department's Foreign Service Exam. I was accepted to AU and failed the exam, so I called it a draw. A reasonable alternative to an esteemed diplomatic career seemed to be making soap commercials in Eastern Europe. So that's what I went with.

My *diplomacy* with my kids goes something like this: DO IT, or I will count to three and then something really bad will happen. Could you imagine how the Chinese or the Soviets would have reacted to that? My friend Susan even gave me a book about disciplining children called "1,2,3 Magic" and let me tell you, after I count 1,2,3 there's definitely some damn good Magic going on.

Our current diplomatic challenge is that we are raising two boys who want to kill each other. It's like nuclear weapons, or nucular, if you're a Republican (sorry, sorry... it's just so hard to resist).

While giving Ian a bath, I play my last card. Asking his advice.

"Ian, what do you think Papa and Mommy can do to help you and Julian stop fighting?"

Ian is squeezing black sludge out of a water toy I should have thrown out in 2006.

"Ian?"

"I don't know mom. Let me think about it."

I let him think about it for about a minute and then I can't keep my mouth shut any longer.

"Ian, why do you and Julian hit each other so much?"

"Because he hits me first. So I have to hit him back." Duh.

"Ian, do you know what an arms race is?" (I know. You're thinking where the hell is she going with this?)

"What is it?"

"What does it sound like?"

"I dunno." More squeezing and squishing.

"It's when two boys are hitting each other and they keep hitting and neither one of them stops until they just hit each other forever."

Ian is impressed by this. "That sounds bad."

"It is. So somebody has to be the one to stop hitting first, right? Or it will just go on forever, right?" (And Mommy and Papa will go out of their freaking minds, right?)

"So one of you needs to stop hitting first. Who do you think should stop hitting first?" (I SO impress myself with what an idiot I am, sometimes. I even have a master's degree.)

"Julian should."

Thank God for all of you that I'm not in the Foreign Service.

Non Sequitur

I served a salad last night with dinner. Ian and Julian actually love salad. I know, you're thinking, what bribe worked for eating salad? No bribe. They just love the green stuff.

Julian was especially excited. He calls the hard white parts of the lettuce "crunchies" and wanted all of them. Ian wanted all the olives, which both boys call ceitunas, a near-miss pronunciation of the Spanish word for them.

"Mom? Mom? You know, you know, you know..." says Julian.

I'm looking at him and my eyes widen further with each "you know?" until they are bulging.

"Mooooom! Don't look at me like that!"

Oh, sorry. "What is it, Julian?"

"OK. Mom? You know? You know..."

Not this again.

"Yes?"

"You know who has lechuga? You know who?" Another Spanish word, this one for lettuce.

"Who?"

Julian puts both palms down on the table, as if to steady himself when he shares his next piece of information.

"Witches!"

Excuse me?

"Yeah. Witches! They have lechuga. And you know what else? You know? You know?"

I'm still on Witches!

"You know? Also. The dinosaur? The one we saw. Him, his name, his name was Poopy Mopsydo."

I wondered if my reading of Beatrix Potter the night before got a little confused. But I was still on Witches!

I start to shake my head that we don't use that word, Poopy not Witches!, especially at the table. Julian is one step ahead of me, waving me off.

"Mom, Mo-Mo-Mo-Mom, I know. I know. But really. That really is his name," he shrugs a sorry, but what can a fellow do if that really is his name. It has to be said. "It really is Poopy Mopsydo, his name. It really is."

"Who is this?" I ask, still on Witches!

"Mom. You know. He's the brother of the other guy!"

"Does this have anything to do with the Witch who has the lechuga?"

Ian and Julian drop their forks and look across the table at each other. Ian is shaking his head and I can tell Juli is totally shocked by my question.

"Mom?" Ian puts a hand on my elbow, gently, as if to soothe me during my bout of delirium. He gets close to my face and speaks in a whisper: "What are you talking about?"