First, he complained about "Crying Boy," and wondered if that baby had to come everywhere with us.
Later, he adjusted and played the part of a caring big brother.
Later still, he seemed to catapult into the pre-teen stage of not really wanting to have to hang with him or amuse him.
And as the years passed, he had to hear his mother say, "He's only 5," "He's only 6," and "He's only 7." He didn't care. He is and always has been concerned about his place as the center of the our universe and his need for tidiness and his need for stability. He likely has never and will never and certainly cannot now fathom why he has to put up with this younger brother when his younger sister is the perfect sibling to one such as he.
I mentioned yesterday afternoon that soccer-crazy Youngest has one heck of a kick, and I reminded Eldest that, when he was that age, his coach called him "The Big Boot." "Boot it, Eldest," his coach would yell. "Give it the big boot."
That set the stage for this morning, when I said it would thrill me to no end to have him play with the newly created soccer "pitch" down on the back deck. (The one we moved from the deck right off the kitchen because the noise of it drove me insane. So now we wait for the neighbors to complain about the thwack-thwack-thwack of Youngest and his soccer.)
It might have lasted three kicks. Whatever the number, the last one, propelled by Youngest with that phenomenal powerful foot of his, hit Eldest square in the privates.
I never thought of laughing, nor did Youngest. Pete, however, nearly bit his inner cheek out, holding in the hilarity.
Thus ended the togetherness of Eldest and Youngest. I'll put it on the calendar to try again in six months.
But it won't be with a soccer ball.