I remember a time when my husband and I had the most adorable little boy, with blonde hair and blue eyes and a smile that could light up a room, he got attention everywhere we went. He was a fast developer and a great little companion, although he never, EVER, slept but we looked at him with adoration in our eyes and thought lets give him a baby brother or sister. Lets have another baby, they can play together, keep each other company, look out for each other and be the best of friends…..pah ha ha.
Fast forward 3.5 years and I feel like I am parenting two world champion wrestlers.
My poor neighbors must think they live next to a war zone and I can no longer hide my surprise that neither of them have tried to sell up and ship out or better yet, simply abandoned ship, because unless they have viewings on the weeks we are on holiday I doubt there will ever be a queue to live next door to the wrestle mania training ground.
In all honesty I expected my boys to play fight a bit but this is constant and if they are not fighting with each other and (shock horror) are actually playing together then believe it or not that is usually worse. Solidarity, calmness and quiet can only mean one thing, double trouble. The only reason they ever stop fighting with each other is in order to plan and plot a way to fight, frighten, scare, surprise or sabotage their father and I.
There was a time when I tired to intervene, to play the peace maker, be the firm and fair parent that taught them about turn taking and compromise and how hurting each other was bad and how loving each other was good but that had catastrophic implications……for me. These two mini humans doing their best impression of a pub brawl, with pure hatred pouring out of every orifice of their being, throwing punches that would rival a world class boxer would suddenly unite and turn on me. Me the peace keeper, me the one offering comfort to the latest victim, me the mum who at this rate will be a wrinkly, grey, alcoholic ball of nerves by 31. All of a sudden their anger and aggression for each other bonds them in an unimaginable fashion and it becomes a scene out of gremlins where these two sweaty, hairy, small things are chasing me around what was once my beautiful sanctuary of a house before they invaded and declared ownership of every corner.
My fantasies of two little boys sat playing happily in matching dungarees, taking it in turns to brum a little car peacefully around their play mat is so far from the reality that it begs the question
Do all brothers fight?