1 love for one's own children
2 a city in China
The O-Dog and the Fletchmonster are at times like f*cking Shiites and Sunnis.
O-Dog: Fletchmonster, you're a baybeeeeee...
Fletchmonster: Waaaaauahghhgh. Stupid Odie. Stupid. Stupid.
(slap. pull. bite.)
O-Dog: AAAAAAAHHHH. He bit me!
Prego: (muttering) jesus f*cking christ. Hey, man. You started it.
This scenario, or any of a number of variations and permutations are a daily occurrence in the Prego household. Matchbox cars are chucked, bodies fly off of couches, siblings are tortured... Baghdad is a more peaceful place than my living room.
Frankly, I just try to keep them from killing each other while somehow creating that bond that will hopefully exist when I go grudgingly to my grave. Sh*t, part of the reason there is a Fletchmonster is because I didn't want the O-Dog to be by himself after the missus and I become fertilizer. I know that first-hand, since my mom passed away. Though my dad still thankfully has a pulse, he lives seven-hundred miles away -- that means that if I find myself in a hell-of-a-predicament, I at least have my brother and sister nearby... and the missus, of course.
The way the Fletchmonster and O-Dog go at it, though, you wonder if that relationship will ever exist.
39 Year Old Fletchmonster: Yeah, I have an older brother, but that f*cker and I haven't talked in 37 years, since he turned off the TV while I was watching "Scooby Doo Meets Batman & Robin."
Mrs. O-Dog: Honey, why don't you invite the Fletchmonster over for Thanksgiving Dinner?
43 Year-Old O-Dog: Why, so he can pull my hair, call me stupid and scribble all over my Maurice Sendak novels? F*ck that.
I know the reality. My own brother and I can't agree on lunch on any given day. We stopped whaling on each other in 1986, I believe... but I'd still step in front of a truck for the bastard (or at least try to pull him to safety.) As far as holiday dinners go, he does call me stupid... but then again, I accidentally scratched the side of his convertible once...
It's likely the O-Dog and Fletchmonster's beer-swilling arguments will be lively, but I know they won't be bad enough to involve the authorities. I have a feeling my boys will be all right.
The other day after soccer practice, O-Dog picks up his snack and drink from his coach an we take the walk back to the car. The routine is to open the O-Dog side first, let him sit in his booster, then come around to the Fletchmonster's side to buckle him into the car seat - go back to the O-Dog and help him strap himself in before I go back to the driver's seat.
As I got back in the car I turn back to see the O-Dog has opened his Rice Krispies treat, broken it in half and handed a piece to the Fletchmonster, without saying a goddamned word. It was at that point that philoprogenitiveness caused a hint of tears welling up in my eyes and my cholesterol-coated heart to warm over.
Yeah... my little f*ckers are going to be all right.