“No, Stewwa! Nooooooooo!”
That’s the sound I hear just before the true jackassery begins – the chasing around the couch, the screaming, the inevitable injury and associated howling. This is all very familiar now. This does not make it any less irritating.
You see, I’ve learned something. Kids love to fight. They love to fight about supremely dumb shit. The dumber the better. My kids fight over who gets to use the red cup, a broken clothespin, a paper clip through which nuts and washers have been affixed (this is currently ongoing, BTW), who is a winner, which is superior – Mighty Machines or Teen Titans Go, who is older, who likes They Might Be Giants more. If one of them is quietly engaged in something, the other will invariably attempt to join in by attempting to occupy the same square foot of floor space causing the most diabolical and unearthly screeching this side of Hades. And if it’s a weekend morning and they wake their father up? All the drama.
I hadn’t expected this. The squabbling. The noise. Will and I both have younger brothers, but in both cases they’re nearly 10 years younger. In my case, my (half) brother and I rarely lived under the same roof. I had the best of both worlds: having a sibling yet pretty much being raised an only child. I experienced a peaceful, serene childhood. There was no one there to steal my milk or invade my room or burp in my face or fart in my presence just to be irritating or to be angry when it was my birthday and they didn’t get presents, too.
(Now they’re arguing about who ate all the cinnamon rolls that we don’t have.)
I often think of how much quieter households with only children must be.
Does this ever stop, or am I in for roughly another 12 years of this deafening nonsense?