Sweet B'Jesus, Mother of God, I don't know how much more I can take. Now, don't get me wrong, I love my children. I love them to the moon and back. I love them so much I am thinking of puncturing my own ear drums to keep from freakin' killing them.
Rolan, the baby, turned 2 in July and it was as though some magic ass kicking switch turned on when he did. Don't get me wrong, Rolan has been taking up for himself for a while. But, ever since that birthday, he is now on the shit starting end as well.
Most mornings the boys play well until at least 10. At that point, one of them starts playing with a useless cardboard box that the other must have and then they lock both arms at the elbows and scream at one another in a pitch shrill enough to deafen a dog. I discipline them, but they don't care. The fight is on and each boy would rather lay limp and bleeding on the carpet than concede whatever toy they are bickering over. Never mind that we have, like, $1000 worth of mind numbing horseshit from them to tinker with. Toys are only desirable when they are in brother's hands.
The battle cries started particularly early this morning at 9 am. By 10, I was thinking of drinking a half a bottle of vanilla extract to take the parental edge off, but then I remembered that I had to be the role model. Frankly, that's probably what's wrong with this situation to start with. What the hell was God thinking? I'm sure He's scratching His head right now, muling over the desperation he must've faced when he put me of all people in charge of the future. (Yes, children are the future. I know because Whitney Houston sung about it. Also, crack is whack, just another pearl of wisdom from Whit.
As I stare totally dumbfounded at my UFC fighter sons, I remember all the bullshit arguments Katie and I threw down in front of Mom. I remember her pleading for us to knock this nonsense off. I just wanted her to recognize that Katie was a pain in the ass little sister who needed to be stopped at all cost. Those were, after all, my toys she was putting her greasy little hands on. Now I just wish I could buy a time machine, travel back to the early 90s, pimp my MC Hammer pants and give my little sister a hug.