Stop the presses! Hold the phone! Mark the calendar! Do you hear that?
It's the sound of brotherly love! Philadelphia ain't got nothin' on Backroads tonight. My boys are playing a game of pool. That's right. The seventeen-year-old is not beating the stuffing out of the fourteen-year-old with his flapping lips and sharp tongue. Any whoopin' to be done will be a thrashing in the sports arena. And I don't mean a Marquis of Queensbury contest.
I am itching to join them. But I won't. I don't want to horn in on the male bonding. On Thursday, they both have to attend the school Academic Team meeting. And I need for Genius to drive The Pony home after it's over. I don't want to spoil the broth of measured indifference that is currently simmering on the front burner.
This lack of animosity has been a long time coming. It seems like only yesterday that Genius was slapping the downy head of The Pony as he practiced his new sitting-up skill, shouting, "Baby Smacky! Baby Smacky!" as The Pony slowly succumbed to gravity and face-planted into the carpet. Or splitting The Pony's head open in a rousing round of tug-o-war over a red terrycloth bathrobe belt four sizes too small.
Ah. Good times. Kids don't stay little long.
The pool tournament has since ended. The Pony whispered to me that he was the actual winner, because Genius sank the 8-ball before its time. He knows better than to gloat.
As far as I can tell, the truce is still in effect.