A second child's smooth moves

I carry Jacob a lot, so much so that he has in the past week taught himself to say "Carry Me!" in the most unmistakeable way. He is totally spoiled and very heavy, and I keep thinking I should quit indulging him so much, except that he is very, very cute and squishy. And, have you seen my arms? They are seriously ripped. I thank him for that.

You can imagine that most of my conversations with Jacob take place with his voice about 4 inches away from my ear, which is not a bad thing. He's not overly loud or obnoxious. But having him on my hip, and not in front of me, tends to make him lose in the constant conversational battle between him, Isaac, and Dada, who occasionally all have something to say to me at the same time. But The Jake, he has ways of controlling the situation.

Take, for example, today as we were exiting IKEA, well past our lunch time. A nice healthy snacking lunch of fruit, string cheese, and pretzels awaits them in the car, but the boys have seen the giant-sized posters of hot dogs touted at the cafe as we stand in line to pay for our new trappings, and they won't be denied. "Daddy, we want hot dogs for lunch," suggests Isaac, and his hip-attached, parroting brother chimes along in my ear, "Hot dog. Hot dog." Dada takes both of them towards the cafe to take care of business, leaving me behind to perform my duties as family debit-card wielder.

Everything bought, I look around for the fellas. No O'Neal boys at the cafe, or at the dining area. Where could they be? Ah, there they are, at the exit. But what's this? "Where are the hot dogs?" I say to Dada, which you can imagine was precisely the wrong thing to say. Apparently Dada was trying to entertain them at an IKEA little-person activity center to get their minds off the hot dogs, and my mention of it reminds them. They all start talking. Dada is telling me why they have no hot dogs. Isaac is telling me why he needs a hot dog. Somewhere around my right ear there is a faint mumbling, which I don't recognize as Jacob until he does his new signature move, one which could only be choreographed by a second child.

Perched firmly on my hip, he tightens his left arm around my right and swings the top half of his body toward my chest, so that he is, literally, in my face; I can't possibly carry on a conversation with anyone else, let alone walk. He cocks his head and opens his eyes wide, as if talking very patiently to someone whom he knows from experience is very hard of hearing. He looks me straight in the eyes and says slowly, "Hot. Dog."