When we last left Big Guy, his big mouth was causing problems at school on a daily basis. It’s a seasonal issue for him that’s going to crop up just as sure as the teacher …

“Mommy! Superman’s face is all black. What did he do to it?” Big Guy demanded indignantly, thrusting the toy under my nose.
Sure enough, there now was a chunk of dark plastic where a face and …

Mommy, can I have water with ice?
Mommy, he won’t let me watch “Wubbzy.”
Mommy, he went “nah nah” at me and stuck out his tongue.
Mommy, can I have candy?
I hate the word “workflow,” largely because the …

Thursday was a great day for Big Guy.
He won $10 and a chocolate bar at a bingo game then spent $8 of the take on Christmas presents for others. He volunteered to share the candy …

As much as I hate to crush a kid, sometimes doing so serves the greater good.
Times such as last night, when Big Guy dallied over his latest penance for misbehaving at school. He’d tossed Play-Doh …

So what was that I was saying yesterday about being in a transition stage, where techniques that used to work no longer do the trick?
This morning – when Big Guy poked, goofed off, ignored me …

Boots announced his arrival home with a wail and a belly-flop on the floor.
“What’s wrong with him?” Dad asked.
“It’s not Christmas,” I said.
“Huh?”
“They were decorating at school today, and he doesn’t get that he doesn’t …

Boots’ eyes got wide this morning after he accidentally bumped a classmate as they both hung their coats and the boy muttered something.
“Mommy!” Boots gasped. “He called me a name!”
I didn’t ask what the name …

It looked like a perfect combination: Two boys, close in age, who love sports, Batman and brownies. So when a friend asked if I could baby-sit on one of those ever-popular days when day care’s …

Notice to Big Guy:
Effective 10 November, 2009, the terms of your school-morning checklist will change. Please note this and make plans to adhere to the following requirements.

Put your lunch box in your backpack.
Be quiet on …

Today was a “good” day at the bus stop.
The dozen and a half first- and second-grader crammed into a shelter not really big enough to hold them and either sat quietly on the bench or …

There are two types of behavior that put a kid at risk for being labeled “naughty” – a label, by the way, that can stick through a child’s school years and a reputation that can …

It was their best imbroglio since the Pizza Man Melee almost a year ago, when they came to blows over imaginary food.
The BaseBrawl began when Big Guy decided to play in the backyard. He can’t …

Yes, I know the statistics.
A relative, neighbor, friend or acquaintance is much more likely to kidnap my child than the stereotypical trench coat-wearing stranger. It’s much more likely to happen at home or at a …

I’d like to claim I’d planned it, but like most of my instances of parenting genius the new grocery-store game was pure accident.
It started as I rummaged through the garbage can that my car has …

When we last left Big Guy, he was struggling mightly to keep his mouth shut and avoid losing recess time at school. He had brief spurts of success, but largely it was a problem that …

Big Guy simply cannot keep his mouth shut. It’s part of his charm, but also part of his downfall.
It keeps landing him in trouble at school, too, and Chatty  Charlie that he is, he always …

The guys get that Halloween is special — it doesn’t happen every day.
They understand that Christmas is once a year, despite Big Guy’s recent pleas to extend it and Boots’ fears that he’s missed it.
Much …

The thump and the wail were loud enough that they brought Dad and me running from opposite directions. We arrived in the living room at the same time to see Boots red-faced and crying.
“What happened …

Take one pint-size prevaricator, mix with a dash of “need to be right” and marinate in an active imagination.
The result: Big Guy’s current truth-challenged state.
In recent weeks, it’s advanced past the “cute but not remotely …

I’m not sure where it came from, but there’s a good chance Little Guy free-lanced it.
I’m not sure how to spell it, though lacking an official entry in Webster’s, I have to go with two …

Finally! We had a perfectly angelic dinner tonight. On one side of the table, at least. Not the one where the guys were sitting, though.
Funny thing is, three years ago I could not have imagined …

Ever feel like you’re living a Subway commercial? You know, the one where dad says no to requests for everything from a bigger allowance to dying the cat?

I love that dad. His increasing irritation at each insane plea pretty much mirrors my own when Big Guy hits hammer mode.

I love that commercial. It cracks me up, but in all comedy, there’s a grain of truth. I found the truth in the Subway ad, and it’s led to a greater spirit of cooperation from the guys.

Honestly, I do say “no” a lot. That’s part of the territory when you’re living with a kid who doesn’t just push boundaries, but tries to plow them down with a Hummer.

I don’t, however, say “no” nearly as often as Big Guy thinks. Is it human nature or Big Guy nature to dwell on the negative? He’ll overlook 3,000 times I say “yes,” because once he gets on a ridiculous-request roll, the “nos” fall like rain.

Can we get a puppy?

No.

Can we skip brushing our teeth just one night?

No.

Can I stay up and watch “Avatar”?

No

Why are you so bossy?

Because I’m your mother. I’ll confess to cringing on that one. It was near the top of my “things I’ll never say” list.

I fear I’m in danger of raising two statisticians. Have a problem? Make a chart.

Big Guy’s first chart he doesn’t even remember. He was gassy, colicky, pukey little bug, and I was hellbent on figuring out why. So I meticulously detailed every feeding in an Excel file — how much he drank, how long he was burped and whether he gassed or puked afterward — to see if I could find a pattern.

I learned nothing, other than that I was in serious need of mental stimulation if I thought charting feedings was a productive use of time, because that’s the way it goes with colic.

Next came the potty-training chart. It was a poster with little squares for the guys to add stickers when they went in the right

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will irritate the living crap out of my every time.

“”You’re a poopyhead!”" Little Guy shouts. I guess it could be worse.

“”It’s not nice to call your brother a ‘poopyhead.’ People feel sad when you do that.”"

“”You’re stoopit, Mommy,”" Big Guy adds.

“”Actually, I’m not.”"

“”But you just said you were stoopit.”"

“”No, I said I did something stupid. That’s different.”" And, no, I don’t expect a 5-year-old to parse that. I’ll have to strike the word from my vocabulary for the next 15 years.

I try not to overreact, and usually calm admonishment works.

Problem is, the more you ignore an annoying behavior with Big Guy, the more he escalates until it gets your attention. I learned that when several people recommended pretending not to hear his terrible twos tantrums. That

I’d barely finished my first cup of coffee when the insult rang out this morning. “Hey, toilet head!” Note to self: Switch to another shampoo.

It was from Big Guy’s Best Friend, and I was thrilled to hear it.

Best Friend, you see, is a sweet little towhead, with good parents. For a year and a half now, our two families have arrived at day care at about the same time. Somewhere along the line – no one can quite remember how it started – Best Friend and I developed an odd morning ritual.

“Hey, French fry!” he’ll call out.

“Good morning, spaghetti!” I’ll reply. We’ll go on for a couple of minutes, trading food names and giving their teacher the munchies. I was particularly impressed the day he called me “sushi.” Sushi? If he eats that, his parents are my heroes.

So today’s “toilet head” shocked me – I’m pretty sure his folks aren’t serving dinner in that type of porcelain. I also felt guilty about our morning ritual – was it my fault Best Friend had crossed the line into not-nice names?

The day went to crap when I had to wage war against an army of ants bent on camping on the front porch. I stepped outside with the Raid, and the bugs quickly became the least of my battles.

“Can I go?” Big Guy asked

“”Yes, but stay on the sidewalk away from the spray,”" I said.

“”Fine. You don’t want me to go. I’ll just stay in.”"

“”I didn’t say that. I said you could go, but keep away from the spray.”"

“”Why can’t I go outside? I want to go outside!”"

From there, it was game on for 36 hours. Not, really, but it felt like it.

I was concerned because we’d had a similar go-round the previous evening. I can’t remember what started it, but I do remember the tears, the frustration. Isn’t Big Guy too old for this?

So I

Forget the image of angels who flit about in froofy gowns.

I’ve had a number of ethereal encounters of late, and not one has fit that stereotype.

Angels such as the neighbor who anonymously toted my trash to the curb tonight after seeing me drown in guy-induced chaos. Or the lady who fashioned four paper airplanes to entertain the guys during a lengthy wait. Or the parent who readily admitted having a kid fond of crying “meanie” – Big Guy’s latest retort to virtually anything displeasing – and offered just the solution for talking him down from the ledge.

The best-disguised angel, though, sported a thick auburn beard and blue security guard’s shirt. I don’t think he was even aware of his heavenly qualities. But he said just the right thing at just the right time, and it made my day. My week, even. I’m still basking in the afterglow.

Missing: One sweet kid, answers to the name of Little Guy.

There’s someone hanging out at the house who looks a lot like him sometimes – can work those baby blues hard enough to melt your heart, and if that doesn’t do it, he’ll throw in a 1,000 megawatt grin. But the attitude’s changed.

Maybe the last haircut, which took him from borderline Goldilocks to a tough-guy buzz, did it. Perhaps it’s too much pirate play – he can “grrrrrrrr” with the best of them. Or perhaps he’s simply been having a huge laugh at my expense all these months, making me think I was going to skate on the Terrible Twos this time.

I know better now.

Today, the kid who used to greet every morning with a beatific smile pounced into my bed bright and early with a shriek. “Want orangine cones! Want orangine cones!”

I broke the news that there were no scones, orange or otherwise. He quickly switched gears. “Wanna watch Thomas! Wanna watch Thomas!” he wailed. Thomas isn’t on the TV in here, I said. More wails, followed by an alternating chorus of “Mommy, huggy” and “Mommy, no huggy” when I reached for him.

Your brother taught you that, didn’t he?

This just in: According to a new article at parenting.com, kids want discipline. They’re practically begging you for it.

Ah-HA! So that’s why Big Guy screamed half the way home tonight.

I could have sworn he was shrieking, “But I want to go to the park. I won’t say bad words tomorrow. Let me GO!”

I couldn’t tell exactly, though, because after the first minute or so I turned up the radio to block it out.

And there’s always auditory distortion when the pitch reaches ranges only dogs can hear. After reading that article, I’m sure now he was saying, “Oh, you’re right, Mommy! I shouldn’t have said those things, and I know that now. Thank you SO much.”

I did feel bad – but only a little

I’ll be the first to admit that I was a bratty older sister.

My most famous stunt, the one that will be recounted at every family gathering as long as there’s anyone still alive who remembers it, was when I about 3 and decided to style my brother’s hair with Vaseline. That’s probably why my mom was stunningly unsympathetic when 1½-year-old Big Guy did the same thing with his hair – and his clothes, and his bed.

Still, for every time I was busted, there were almost as many when I was wrongly accused. Such as the tomahawk incident, which started with the poor victimized brother playing cowboys and Indians in the back yard. He let out a whoop and hurled a claw hammer. It stuck in

Big Guy’s Best Girl ran up as I got to the preschool this evening, yelling my name. She’s done that daily for the past few weeks – it’s a Big Thing when you’re a kid and learn an adult’s name. Except today, she looked serious.

“Debra,” she said, hands on hips. “He’s weird to me.”

I was afraid to ask, but I did. “How’s he weird?”

“He’s just so goofy! ” she giggled. Right on cue, Big Guy bounced up, doing his favorite new dance, the one that makes him look like Pinocchio without strings.

“I was nice to my friends today!” he whispered.

It wasn’t that way for a while. By mid-September, he’d realized that many 5-year-old friends wouldn’t be back. Preschool resumed, except it now involved sitting and

I’d been out of the kitchen long enough to get my shoes this morning when I heard a wail. Little Guy rushed over and epoxied himself to my knees.

“Momma, budder poosh me!”

First reaction: Wow! A four-word sentence!

Second reaction: Aw, crap. Another tattler.

Tattling’s been all the rage at our house for almost a year, ever since Little Guy got old enough to walk and start annoying the life out of his brother. Before, Little Guy had been only a minor pain. He could creep around pretty well, but his ability to take Big Guy’s stuff was limited. Suddenly, he could get up and grab whatever he wanted.

I did not, however, expect to reach the cross-tattle so soon. But, then, Little Guy has been learning from the

Mommy requests the honor of your presence at a debutante bawl honoring Little Guy. Black tie optional; ear plugs mandatory

The calendar says the actual event is weeks off, but the attitude says something entirely different. Just ask anyone who was in SaveMart Saturday morning. Yep, Little Guy has met the Terrible Twos.

Except for a few isolated storms — the unfortunate airplane incident, for example — Little Guy’s always been a pretty chilled dude. When he did fuss, it was for one of two reasons: Hungry or sleepy.

His tiny fits were endearing in a way. His chin would drop and his eyes would shoot a wounded look. His mouth would start quivering, and the face would crumble. “Waaaahhhhh!!!!” But not a waahhh without warning. You could always see it build.

Saturday, though, was quite a coming out party for acting out with little notice.

To say I’m not a patient person is like saying Bill Gates has sold a little software. I want to get everything done 10 minutes ago, and I hate waiting. It’s a nature vs. nurture question: Did I get into journalism because I’m a speed freak, or am I a speed freak because I’m a journalist.

But while I’m impatient, I’m not stupid. I take Ninth Street to work, and usually I’ll wait out any train toddling along B Street. The reasoning: By the time I detour, the train will be gone and I wouldn’t have saved any time.

Thursday, though, I was running late and a train was using B Street for long-term parking. So I turned around and eventually wound up on Seventh Street.

Minutes later, Big Guy was spellbound. “Mommy, Mommy, MOMMY!!! Look! It’s Mufasa!”

And in a 3-year-old’s mind, it was indeed the “Lion King” perched in all his glory on the south end of the Seventh Street Bridge.

I started with “The Happiest Toddler on the Block” and quit after “I’m OK, You’re a Brat”.

The premise of “Happiest Toddler:” Kids are cavepeople, without verbal and coping skills needed in our world. I’ll buy that. But then it suggests going caveman back at them, getting as loud and as animated as they do.

It’s supposed to empathetic. Problem: Big Guy wanted to be a bigger and better caveman, amping up the tantrum every time I tried it. Guess he took it as a challenge.

The premise of “I’m OK:” Some children really are difficult, and that’s not your fault. True, and strangely comforting. But then there’s the part about how some people just aren’t cut out to be parents. Oh my God!