And pretty soon, we'll be outnumbered!

The boys wrestle now. It is a mystery to my female mind. I don't recall ever having the urge to beat the tar out of my brother for the fun of it, but you know, whatever entertains them. Until they start flipping each other over in what suspiciously resembles a body-slam. Shouldn't body-slamming be prohibited before age 5? When the body-slam alarm goes off in my head, their fun is usually interrupted by a screechy, panicky mother. What can I say? I'm a party pooper.

They're not fans of sharing, especially Gabriel. On a daily basis, he gives me a look that says, "Um, are you not aware that everything your eyes can see is MINE?" And if it's being played with by Eli, it's the best, greatest toy ever and he has to have it RIGHT NOW. I'll give him credit that he usually tries to trade out toys. Unfortunately, he doesn't realize that Eli understands that a discarded sock is not nearly as fun or cool as the singing caterpillar.

And Eli? He's a screamer. He's milking the baby position for as long as possible. When in doubt, just yell your head off. Mom and Dad can't resist the dimples and will assume that your pain (whether real or perceived) was caused by the big, mean, much wiser older brother who should know better. Just scream and smile. Works every time.

However, the force that is GabriEli might be mortified in the future to know that sometimes they hold hands in the car. One minute they're making farting sounds on their arms, flinging their shoes around, and laughing hysterically. And then, all of a sudden, they're calm and holding hands. Enjoying the ride and the company, I guess. Meanwhile, I'm squealing to Ben about how sweet it is. Usually this triggers the sappy alarms in their heads and they resume making farting sounds. Ah, life with sons.