When I was little I wanted just one thing. Well, two things. I wanted to break my arm. Don’t ask!
I was taken with the idea of a large amount of cement wrapped around my
arm on which people could write stuff.
The other thing I really, really wanted was a big brother. I had this hugely romanticised notion of what
having a big brother would entail. He
would be a police man and ride a motor bike.
Sometimes I had him driving a pick-up truck with bales of straw in the
back. He was also able to fly a
helicopter and he was great at fixing stuff.
I mean really, really great at
it. Too much watching CHiPs, The Fall
Guy, The A-Team and MacGyver, methinks.
I remember the day I discovered a school friend had not one but three
older brothers. Three! Holy Sons and Daughters, batman! How did she get all the luck? I just knew they were super nice to her,
spoiled her and took her places, told her stuff and stuck up for her whenever
she needed it. “They don’t,” she
insisted, completely and blithely unaware of how words can shatter. “They’re always mean to me and they give me
Chinese Burns.” I refused to believe
her. She was just being mean to me.
I may not have had big brothers but I was pretty sure that wasn’t what
they did. Around the same time, I was
well aware of how “strained” things were between two of our cousins – boy and
his younger sister. They used to murder
each other. Literally kill one
other. It was incredibly and hugely
stressful to witness. They never missed
an opportunity to slag one another off and if one didn’t present itself, they
simply invented one. The verbal slagging
would continue for a matter of minutes as a warm up before the physical assault
on each other would begin. They gave body
slamming a different meaning. Cage
fighting (each other) was invented for them.
I convinced myself that this big brother was the exception to the
rule. Be careful what you wish
for, isn’t that what they say? Well, I
got my broken limb (knee). I got a
brother (little) and years and years and years down the line I got my boys
(four). The broken knee was not, I
repeat not, the most pleasant thing that ever happened to me. In fact it was downright awful. There were no pins, no invasive repair
procedures, just three months with a leg that refused to work properly and a
filthy, rotten temper to go with it. It
was a horrible experience, one that saw me cry like a baby on more than one
occasion, least of all on the day I couldn’t move fast enough to get to the
bathroom on time. Having a little
brother was grand. Once everyone got
over how blessed he was amongst wimmin.
And the arrival of my own tribe well and truly blew my “boys are nice”
stubbornly held belief out of the water and all over the walls in the form of
markers, crayons and I hope to Jeebus, that’s chocolate spread. Don’t get me wrong, our boys are nice, just, you know, not
necessarily to each other. You know that
heat shimmer that comes off petrol and diesel and a hot cooker? Well, something similar radiates off boys;
it’s testosterone. Mixed in with
competitiveness, endless, boundless
energy, an innate desire to break stuff, the ability to eat you out of house
and home and more testosterone. They
never stop moving. They even twitch in
their sleep. And yes, the fight. With each other. With me.
They have “gone for” each other but I was always there, ready to jump in
and intervene before the blood bath began.
I have been told by many, that this is just the start of it. It’s just what boys do. This morning I had to
pull Screecher Creature No. 2 off Screecher Creature No. 3. Eighteen months between them but physically
matching. Neither will give in and both
will retaliate with violence. Even the
youngest Screecher Creature has a kill or be killed ‘tude. He’s a biter.
And sneaky with it. I reckon he
is spending too much time with the dog. She is fond of biting too and Screecher
Creature No. 4 has been known to put his hand in her mouth and allow her to
chew on it. The day he bit his older
brother, he actually crawled up on all fours behind him and chomped down on his
inner thigh. Naturally enough there were
ructions and when I tried to explain to the toddler biting, even out of
affection, is definitely not cool, he offered up a big, dimpled, milk tooth
grin. That’s the trouble – he bites out
of affection. The others have a
genuine score to settle but this youngest one – he’s a tad confused, bless him. He gets “give us a kiss” and “don’t bite!”
mixed up. I truly hope he gets them
sorted out before the first girlfriend or there could be big trouble ahead. He may not be able to move as fast as the
others, nor connect with his intended target every time he delivers a thump,
but he has found a couple of ways that are more than adept at getting his point
across. Another little act of thuggery
in his arsenal; he is a bit fond of grabbing hair. The first time he did it, Screecher Creature
No. 3 thought it was great fun altogether.
Despite it being his hair that Screecher Creature No. 4 held clenched in
his fist. It wasn’t so funny the third
and fourth time but he had only himself to blame on those occasions. Brendan cannot reach Liam from his cage,
car seat, so Liam is obviously bending down to allow access to his barnet. The little sadist. Yep, boys is wild. They like to hurt each other. Mine have a strange interest in pain - as
long as it’s not happening to them that is.
I asked myself a question this morning on the back of yet another mental
ninety minutes of getting them up, dressed, fed and out in time for
school. Which would I prefer? This current stage when they are young and
whiney, argumentative, still very dependent, teeming with hyperactive energy
especially first thing in the morning, so very, very demanding and on occasion
beating the crap out of each other? Or
the sullenness of testosterone ridden teenagers who won’t talk to you and
elephant about the place with a massive chip on their shoulder and on occasion
beating the crap out of each other? Oh,
jeebus. It’s much of a muchness isn’t
it?
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