A couple of days ago, I was making dinner and Gutsy was "helping", which basically means he kept jumping the gun on cracking the (free range) eggs into the bowl. He was tired after a long day of school, but apparently not as much as older brother, Intrepid.

Intrepid was moody. A moody slacker. He is his mother, through and through. I put everything off until the last minute. I wait until 4:30 to unload the dishwasher, load the heaps of nasty plates and cups into said dishwasher by about 4:55, and start dinner by 5 if I'm very, very lucky. Technically I have all day to do this, but I'm far too busy drinking coffee and socializing to even contemplate doing any housework until then.

Intrepid, AKA Mini-me, is so similar it's scary. He has a week to complete his homework and will do it on Thursday night. He only cleans his room when I remind him (firmly), and only takes the recycling out to the garage when it's stained in blood from someone tripping over it as it overflows from the bin.

An eleven-year-old genius with the vocabulary of someone twice his age he might be, but I still have to remind him to change his underwear. Sigh.

(I feel the need to mention here that I do change my underwear every day. We're not that similar. I only take genetic ownership of the slacker/genius part.)

Gutsy is quite the opposite in many ways. He thrives on routine, likes to wear clean clothes and even remembers most of his chores. He can be louder and more obnoxious than a drunken parrot, but we all have our flaws. I love Gutsy's willingness to organize, to invent, and to "help".

"Helping" is what Gutsy does best. Once he "helped" take apart his new scooter in hopes of inventing another one, but had to stop when it was time for dinner. Later that night, I tripped over it in the dark garage while taking out the recyling Intrepid forgot about.

Irony, you and I are special friends.

Another time, Gutsy took apart his new drum kit and reassembled it in such a "unique" way that I've been unable to put it back into its normal state. Now the drums sit mangled and unused for the most part, but I can't say that bothers me very much.

Back to the kitchen scene mentioned above: Gutsy is "helping" and Intrepid is playing computer games. Spawnling is around as well, but I have no idea what he was doing. Probably pulling apart a plant in the livingroom, which is his new passion. A serial botanical murderer in the making, Spawnling is. Soon he'll be placing them in a pit in the back yard and sending down buckets of lotion, so he can make pretty slippers out of their supple leaves.

I pry Intrepid away from the computer and ask him about his bottle drive and charity walk pledge sheet, both due back at school within the next few days. He'll do it tomorrow, he says. It's always tomorrow, I remind him, and I'd like him to do it today instead. He's just too tired, he says. He needs a break, he says.

This is the time when I not so politely and very firmly explained to my son in my Worst Mom In The World way, that he needs to take some responsibility and that he's been putting this off for too long. This, of course, turned me into his least favourite mother of all time, as he whine and cried, talked over me, and, in typical pre-teen fashion stomped upstairs to his room. All the way up he was muttering - loudly - about how unfair I am.

As this was going on and I wasn't paying attention, Gutsy cracked more eggs than we needed into the bowl. Then, once Intrepid's door was unceremoniously slammed, my five-year-old turned to me and said in the sweetest voice:

" Mom, I really wish Intrepid would just shut his pie hole."

I nearly spat laughter into the bowl of too-many eggs. Quickly collecting myself, I replied with "Gutsy, please don't say rude things like that."

Then I excused myself, went into the livingroom and fell into a chair laughing.

Have I mentioned how much I love my life?