Beautiful Boys

A glance at my kitchen table reveals numerous Lego stormtroopers, beheaded and dismembered. Meticulously, stormtrooper helmets are laid in a row; to their left, tiny plastic legs. No, my son's play is not revelatory of his own dark side nor indicative of a fundamental flaw in his character or upbringing. He is simply a four-year-old boy. When questioned why these poor souls could not merely be wounded or captured and taken to prison, Thomas wags his head at me, balking at the absurdity of the question. In an effort to enlighten his naive mother, he attempts to clarify that total destruction by light saber wielding Jedi knights is the only plausible destiny for bad guys.

"Look Mom!" Thomas cries out as I attempt to conceal the avocado being mashed into banana and added to yogurt while also keeping an eagle eye on his two younger brothers who are together launching board books, magnets, wooden spoons, and anything else they can discover down the back stairs, all the while eliciting their own demands for my attention. "This is Captain Rex. He has two blasters. And guess who is behind my back? I'll give you a hint. He's young. And Here's Captain Cody, and these two are named Flotsam and Jet-pack. Mom. Mom. Are you looking?"

In the midst of our lunch, Russell tugs on his shirt sleeve, forcing it down so that his left hand disappears within the fabric. He lifts up the hand and anticipates the desired response from me: "Oh, Darth Vader has cut off your hand!" Later that evening as I emerge from the bedroom, I find my youngest son in the hallway. In one hand he clasps a small black arm which is grasping a red lightsaber. While this arm once belonged to Thomas' Darth Tater toy, it now more effectively serves as a blaster. With his other hand, Elliot pushes his palm towards me, a slight hiss escaping his grinning lips. Elliot has transformed into Emperor Palpatine; I have become Luke Skywalker and am being subjected to electricity being shot out of his hands. Ah yes, make no mistake, I am the mother of three boys.

Suppressing a giggle, I knew I could not laugh. In fact, not even a hint of a smile could be evidenced on my face without the possibility of exciting deep indignation within my son. Thomas was dead serious, annoyed, and downright frustrated with his youngest brother, who, inevitably tossed from his crib onto the floor "Thomas' babies" (a cloth honey pot, home to four Winnie-the-Pooh puppets, which I might add is technically Russell's and Elliot's). Eyes lifted, Elliot stared blankly at his brother as Thomas launched his diatribe of disgust. The "exchange" went something like this. "Elliot, that is the second time you have done that. It is not funny." Elliot sits quietly. "No, it isn't." Elliot still sits quietly. "I am very disappointed." Elliot closes one eye and begins snorting. "This is no time for the pirate."

My heart goes out to my eldest son. After all, it is difficult and rather trying at times being an older brother to rather rambunctious twin boys At any given moment Russell and Elliot might saunter up behind him pull his hair, bite his hand, or poke him with whatever is in their hands at the time. Thomas has transitioned beautifully and accepted his role as brother and Mommy's helper. Without fail or complaint, he will drop what he is doing to fetch me some paper towels when we are out of wipes, which occurs more frequently than I like to admit. Dutifully, he will hold his brothers' hands during morning prayers, shushing them and exhorting them in a not-so-quiet voice to "act appropriately." And at his request, he has even helped change less than clean diapers. Often he does lapse into co-parent, offering dire warnings to his brothers: "Russell Matthew Jin-pyo. We do not throw our food. I am telling mommy." "Elliot Andrew Jin-seo. Look at me. Listen to your mother." And there are rare moments when hints of longing for another time are innocently offered to me. "Mommy, remember when you and I just cooked, before Russell and Elliot" or "Mommy, I didn't get to spend much time with you today." And nostalgically I remember the times of being a mother of one, Thomas and I lounging in our pajamas, reading book after book, snuggled close together in the pull-out chair in the play room, losing track of time because we had nothing in particular to do. Those days are gone but lovely and more full ones have emerged with the addition of Russell and Elliot to our lives. And despite the few annoyances caused by them, Thomas adores them. We all do. Who could not?

Elliot: There is something enigmatic about my youngest son. Though seemingly reticent, he may be the most assertive of the boys. Banging my legs, lifting up his arms, demanding to be held, there is usually little doubt what Elliot wants. These days, we are working on him asking a bit more quietly. Elliot loves to play dog and will pant around the kitchen while on all fours. His favorite book is I'm a Little Teapot. He particularily likes the page where the teapot attends the opera and Elliot will sing, "la, la, la." He loves his stuffed dogs and Pooh Bear. He also likes to jump on Russell. Every day when entering the bathroom to brush his teeth, he will pick up the picture of my Grandfather Swanson and plop a big kiss on him.

Russell: Russell is like sunshine. Quick to smile, you just want to pick him up and give him a big squeeze. He is laidback and friendly, waving at those passing by in the grocery store, restaraunts, or in cars. He usually prefers his mother's arms even over Grandma's. Russell likes everything to be in order (though often serves as the instigator of disorder) and will yell, "Mama!" until a cabinet door is shut and latched or a picture he has just dislodged is picked up and rehung. Without fail upon waking from his afternoon nap, he points at the icons hanging in our bedroom and demands to kiss them before leaving the room. His favorite book is The Itsy Bitsy Spider, and "The Hustle Bustle" has now been replaced with a jig. Besides, "button," Russell does attempt to say, "zipper," "Pooh Bear," "Tuh-tuh-tuh" (for Thomas), "brother," and more recently "Elijah."

Thomas: When not busy decimating bad guys, Thomas does demonstrate a more sensitive side. Of late, his favorite baby is a stuffed reindeer whom he has named Frank. Thomas likes to carry Frank in his "bjorn," a belt strapped around his waist, and feed him bottles while rocking him to sleep. He also likes to clean the bathroom sink, always checking to see if we are using the "good chemicals." Thomas has also recently become quite enamored with letters and in particular writing his name, as well as drawing little men who almost always have belly buttons. His most recent creation is a man named Bod.