Our household now has two boys in high school. Brothers in name only. Sworn enemies. Deliberate strangers. As luck would have it, they both ended up in the same lunch shift today when classes were juggled to even the numbers. You would think that I single-handedly engineered that act of torture. By the time The Pony and I got home, Genius had convened an inquisition, the most pertinent question pertaining to khaki cargo shorts and bright blue shirts.
Genius: Why did you dress him like me?
Val: I did not dress him like you. I laid out his clothes. You were still in bed. How was I supposed to know what you were going to wear?
Genius: Look at him. It's the same clothes.
The Pony: Genius, YOU dressed like me! I put them on first!
Val: We got to school first. Everybody saw him first. So I guess they think you copied him.
Val: I guess it's kind of awkward, now that you're in the same lunch. And people see both of you together.
Genius: I KNOW! And he's wearing what I wore!
Val: We already established that he put on the clothes first. And anyway, your shirt is different. His is plain. And yous has Chem II in pink.
Genius: They look the same.
Val: It's not like you were anywhere near him. Like he was sitting on your lap. Like you had your hand up his back like some...some...ventriloquist's talking thing. What is that called? I'm drawing a blank here. A ventriloquist's doll?
The Pony: Actually, Mom, it's called a dummy.
Genius: Heh, heh! That's about right. A DUMMY!
Val: Okay, that's enough. Stop calling your brother a dummy.
Genius: But he IS!
The Pony: That really is what it's called, Mom. A dummy.
Val: Pony, you're not helping your case any.