"Terrible Twos" is one of the most glaring misnomers. Robert's twos were just fine, as were his threes. In fact, he's normally a great kid. We have funny conversations about all sorts of everything, peppered with expressions he's just picked up, like "How bizarre!" or "Where in the blue blazes are my sandals?" I can tell him that "GM" stands for "General Motors," and he'll say, "Wow, Dad. How come you know so much about cars?"
But when he's around his brother, especially in larger social situations, his need for attention becomes overpowering and he mutates into another being entirely. He bugs his eyes out, he clenches his teeth, his entire body goes rigid, and he starts dancing around the room like someone just shot his ass full of Tabasco sauce.
Then he says his brother's name about 200 times in a row, each time a little more sing-songy and distorted than the first, until it devolves into a string of high-pitched gibberish. And when you try to make eye contact and communicate to him that we don't appreciate this sort of behavior, he grins like a simpleton, makes a few fart noises, and then gives TwoBert's neck a quick yank before sprinting out of the room.
Robert needs to please grow out of this, please grow out of this, please grow out of this. ASAP. Otherwise I'll have to start a company that makes effigies of four-year-olds. Every venture capitalist with small children will want to back me.
