When my brother was a toddler, he came around the corner one day and declared, "Mommy, tissy (sissy) hit." It was his first complete sentence and an incredible foreshadowing of how our relationship would go until he surpassed me in height, muscle mass and speed. Apparently, I was stunned.
This morning my youngest, rather nonverbal, son slid down the stairs, his tiny bum bouncing on each step. When he reached the bottom he sat there, looked at me, and tattled. "Mama. Hit." Then he smacked himself. I narrowed my eyes, trying to figure out what, exactly, he was reporting. When I didn't immediately respond he increased his volume. "Mama! Hit!" He smacked himself again.
"Who hit?" I asked.
"Dare-dit!" Which, in the event that you can't decipher toddler, is his word for Garrett. But I feel like most of you probably figured that one out for yourselves. Now, in the event that any of you think that my oldest is following in his mother's sibling abuse, allow me to assure you that the reason Matthew knew that you are supposed to tell on a hitter is because he hits his big brother at least three times a day. The Rock Star has only recently begun to retaliate.
Matthew was not wounded--physically or emotionally--in any way. He simply discovered a new word and decided he'd use it to tell on his brother. He was really rather proud of himself.
"Garrett?" I called.
"Did you hit your brother?"
"Um. No." He replied.
"I'm going to ask again. Did you hit your brother?"
"Then why did he come down here and say that you did?"
Boy did that kid look like the cat who ate the canary. Garrett has always been incredibly honest. Matthew has never been able to talk. So apparently we're entering new realms of parenthood wherever we look.
"Um. Yeah. I hit him." The Rock Star stammered. Because there was really nothing left to do but tell the truth.