Yeah, yeah, right. They're all cute and cherubic until one of them skips his nap and a full week of all-day summer camp starts to wear on the other one and there's an attempted drive-by head-smacking incident at the dinner table and the next thing you know the little one has both fists full of his older brother's hair and is kicking him repeatedly in the face and you're like, WHAT THE FUCK, GO TO BED and they whine and protest (because clearly, they were having SO MUCH FUN) but then they go up to their room and you hear...
...and you run to the stairs and the little one is howling from halfway down (I ROLLED! I ROLLLLLED!) and the older one is standing at the top and you're like, EXPLAIN YOURSELVES, YE MONSTERS and he's all, WHAT UP I KICKED HIM DOWN THE STAIRS and no sooner than you get that crisis sorted out and scolded and life-lessoned do you realize that yet another full-contact wrestling match has erupted in the bathroom over a Lightning McQueen toothbrush (OF WHICH WE OWN TWO, BY THE WAY) and you start wondering if this is a situation that requires spankings or an exorcist or spankings from an exorcist but instead you just send everybody to bed with the gentle reminder that YOU FREAKING LOVE EACH OTHER, OKAY, AND THE BUNK BED IS NOT BEYOND THUNDERDOME.
In other words, Ike is totally my favorite, and the only one I would not sell.*
*Until about 4 am. Then we can talk.