I’m off to a slow start this morning. Usually, I rise at the crack of dawn, feed the needy monsters society refers to as my children, then plant my arse in front of the computer to compose the literary genius you have all become accustomed to reading.

(Quiet in the peanut gallery. It’s hard to type when I’m being drown out by sniggering.)

However, last night wore me out. My son’s team got the stuffing knocked out of them again. It was painful. It hurt to watch. I just wanted to run in there, shove some youngsters aside and kick the damn ball myself. There is nothing worse than doing the parental walk of shame past the opposing parents while trying to explain to your son that it is not important if you win or lose, it’s how you play the game.

(Bah humbug. I’ll take a victory over this shit any day.)

Too make matters worse, my darling children would not stop fighting. They were at each other’s throats the moment they stepped off the school bus till the moment they finally fell asleep. Even being separated and threatened to be hung by their toes upside down so Nixon, the World’s Greatest Dog, Ever. could have his way with them was not enough to quiet the masses.

 They were still arguing and making jabs at each other through their bedroom walls when I tucked them in at night. I was tempted to duct tape some mouths shut, but I don’t think that is a government sanctioned course of action for controlling smart mouths with poor attitudes.Generally, Fric and Frac are the best of friends; inseparable like a pair of Siamese twins. But puberty has taken it’s toll on them. Victims of raging hormones, I stand back (read: watch while cowering in my corner, hoping not to make direct eye contact with either of them for fear of provoking the beasts) and try to play peace maker from afar.

I remember the days of not getting along with my big brother, Stretch. I lived in fear of being thrown through the drywall for provoking him with my smart mouth. (I was kind of a stupid sassy chick, the kind who never knew when to stand down or shut up.)

But I honestly thought I had this sibling gig beat. Fric and Frac are so very different from Stretch and myself, that I never really worried about buying any spackle. I’m starting to wonder now, though.

Stretch always tells me I am the foolhardy naive one in the family, ready to believe almost anything.

Surely that doesn’t apply to my own children. They won’t fight like cats and dogs forever, right? It’s just a phase. It’ll get easier from here, right? When they are 14 and 15 they will be braiding each other’s hair (Frac is trying to grow his long) and dating each other’s friends with their  respective blessings. They may even wear matching shirts. Right?

Your silence is deafening. And you there, in the back. I don’t need to hear about the sale on drywall compound at the local hardware store.

Smart asses.