How Could I Ever Suspect Such a Precious Angel-Baby?

I suppose I have not yet said much about my middle child. That Fuzzy Headed Fellow. First born of the twins--eyes wide open (scared the doc) and a head full of crazy (not that kind) dark hair. Now, I just don't have that kind of baby, so if I hadn't been there to see it, I might wonder. Some days I wish I could wonder, but as I say, I saw him arrive and I truly don't think the ob had a throw-down infant up his sleeve when he got down to business, so he is mine. (By the way, YOU try giving birth on an operating table with no stirrups or nothing. It's like being on an ironing board stacked on top of a washing machine.

Anyway, TFHF said his first words at 8 months and hasn't slowed down since. He's totally dominant over the red headed fellow and he's pretty sure that he could take the seven year old . I'm not sure I could put up too much of a fight regarding that there. He's brilliant and elfish--sort of a Curious George after a really good waxing and he knows his stuff. This works out well for him because everything is his stuff. No really.
*sigh*
The only thing is, well, my darling middle child, my brilliant angel with the crazy professor hair...well, he has another talent. He can withhold bowel movements (I'd say poop, but you know, older folks get so touchy) apparently forever. Or at least until he requires the installation of what he not-so-fondly calls a "butt missile." Dunno if you've ever administered something like this to a very wiry (in spite of the constipation, ah youth!) four year old with a verrrrrry strident yell, but I can keep it all nicely vicarious by simply offering to deliver him again rather than administer the butt missile. I guess that's not uncommon, but I really mean it. So he's on one of his not- excreting kicks. This kick usually triggers a not-eating kick, for all the obvious gastronomic reasons.
So I hand the kid his dinner. Not my culinary highpoint, I realize, but still. And he takes it to the table and there it sits. It's gotten to where he cannot watch his beloved "Spongy" until he furnishes (probably) concrete evidence of the necessary bodily function. I mean business when Sponge Bob is in play. About 20 minutes later, my angel-baby brings me his plate. His clean plate. I mean it has been washed. Whaaaaa? Now, I did not fall off the Mommy-Truck yesterday, folks. And I certainly did not fall off the He-Gets-It-From-His-Father-truck recently either. I gently, gently wonder aloud where that food went and how that plate got clean. Hmmm...Have I watched enough Law& Order? The boy is just about to lawyer up when I suggest we take a stroll back to the bathroom. Just for kicks, you see. Just some quality time, him and me. I don't need to go any further here, do I? You get it. Trashcan, Sink, Clean Plate. Yeah.

I am in hell. Got my mother and my four year old starving themselves. Really speaks to my nurturing side, doesn't it? More like a nurturing angle, I guess
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Go to bed, Children.

My gosh, I'm tired. My gosh, I hate dh's hours. My gosh, my house is messy. My gosh, my kids are challenging. My gosh...

We're low on Bourbon.