“He’s the only brother you’ll ever have.”

This statement is reserved for a post-argument or post-cruelty or post-aggravation lecture. This morning the cause was a verbal fight over a toy which quickly disintegrated into a kick from one brother to the other. I don’t know who started the argument. I don’t know who initiated the kick. I don’t care who did what or in what order. It doesn’t matter. It needs to stop.

I stood in front of them as they both sat on the step, looking up at me with big, sad, tear-filled eyes. I sighed.

I know that they love each other. I see it in the way that they take all of their pillows and pile them on the living room floor and act out crazy imaginative stories. Or how when one puts on a firefighter costume, the other one has to as well. Or how when one is Buzz, the other is Woody. Or they’re both Buzz. Or how BigBrother has taken to teaching LittleBrother how to play various things on the computer, above and beyond what I’ve taken the time to teach him thus far. Or when they just randomly tell each other, “I love you.” I know that they love each other.

But for Pete’s sake, I’m tired of the arguing. And the nit-picking. And that tattling. And the “he won’t let me watch him play Leapster.” And the “but he got to pick the game last time.” All of it. I’m tired of it.

And so I repeat, “He’s the only brother you’ll ever have.”

This is a true statement, and I say it like I mean it. I use my serious voice. Not my yelling voice, but my serious voice. The I Mean Business Voice, reserved for Making a Point. The only brother. This is it, boys. No more. None. The only brother.

They look at me, from behind their wet eyelashes, with a bit of confusion in their eyes. You can see their thoughts. “The only brother I’ll ever have? Yeah? So?!” And I want to make them sit nose to nose and imagine life without the other. I want them to realize that the other one currently acts as his best friend. And that it won’t always be that way and they’ll go through periods of something akin to pure hate at one point or another, but that they’ll always be brothers. And that not everyone has this luxury. I want them to recognize how important the other is in his life.

But mostly I just want the arguing before I finish my first cup of coffee to quit.

“You two. Oh, you two. Hug each other and get your butts in the car. No arguing.” They hug, get up off of their bottom step and make their way to the car. Before they’re there, they’re giggling about something and I breathe a sigh of relief.

They’ll be okay, these brothers. They’ll be okay.

[Stop, Drop & Blog is now on Facebook.]

He swings.

He gives the monkey bar a swing with his daddy.

He has some time alone with his mommy.

He misses his brother. I’ve already heard it in his tone when he asks if it’s time to pick up BigBrother yet. I’ve seen it in the way he looks at toys that are more fun when two people play together. But when he smiles at me on the playground or at the coffee shop or just in our living room and says, “I love you mommy,” I know that this one-on-one time that he’s really never had is probably a good thing. He’ll get two years of it.

Here’s hoping for two years of good memories together.

But, man, they can take even the hardest, most anxious of weeks and make it not just tolerable but downright fun.

Right now, I have one boy who is so excited about Kindergarten.

And one boy who is apparently an Elton John Ninja Turtle.

I’m a pretty lucky Mommy. And FireDad is a pretty lucky Daddy. And we think these two little — very different — boys are two very lucky little boys… even if they annoy one another with said differences.

Happy Weekend. We’re relaxing at home this weekend. Come back on Monday for my 10 Year Blogging Anniversary Post!

But… last night in our living room, I saw more love than all the pink puffy hearts in the world could attempt to portray. During an extremely loud dance party that my sons were having while I was attempting to rest, feeling quite exhausted after dinner, they got a bit huggy.

I wished this for them. I prayed this for them. I’m not naive to imagine that it will always be like this. They pushed each other ten minutes after this photo, both ending up in tears — in their rooms. They’re going to argue. And fight. And I venture to guess that each will claim to hate the other at some point in time, if not more than once. But this? This is what I wanted for my children.

This is the stuff of real love. This is the stuff I want to remember. This is the stuff of my heart.

You see, BigBrother’s birthday was last Wednesday. LittleBrother was dismayed to find out that it was not his birthday. In fact, he broke down in hysterical sobs on FireDad’s shoulder because he so desperately wanted to be three. He was calm and well-behaved while BigBrother opened his presents in the evening, however. The next morning? More tears and woe that it wasn’t his birthday. Friday? Same thing.

And then came Saturday! It wasn’t his birthday, but it was the day of the boys’ joint birthday party. He was very excited of course. As we went to insert candles in cupcakes, counting them out for each boy, I asked LittleBrother how old he was. “TWO!” Well, yeah, but how old on Wednesday. “Oh, three.”

And then Sunday morning? Not his birthday again. Tears and woe.

This morning, being Monday? Not his birthday again… but! Due to the Thanksgiving party at preschool on Wednesday, his actual birthday, his teacher asked if we could bring in cupcakes to share with the class today. And so we did. He got to share his cupcakes, have a birthday song and wear the birthday hat… on Not His Birthday.

Tomorrow, I am quite certain, will result in some tears and woe again in the morning.

By the time Wednesday rolls around, the poor kid isn’t going to even care that it’s his birthday. Anti-Climactic Birthday indeed. Thankfully I don’t work that evening, so we should be able to make it somewhat special for LittleBrother. He’ll get to pick dinner (ten bucks says he picks the same place as BigBrother did last Wednesday). We’ll have some special cake. He’ll finally get to open his presents from us.

And then he won’t have to examine his brother’s empty envelopes in hopes of finding something at the very bottom.

Oh, Booey. It will be your day soon. And I promise will make it Super Awesome.

They’re gone.

On Monday, I decided we should spend our evening hours before bedtime at the library. It was hot outside — too hot to play outside — and we were tired of being cooped up in the house. I figured we’d get out, shake off some of the boring house germs and enjoy our favorite place. Lots of birds, one stone. On the very short trip to the library, they argued back and forth about who knows what… yes, no, yes, no, YES, NO.

We pulled into the parking lot, found a spot and as I parked our vehicle, I asked BigBrother to unbuckle LittleBrother. This is the normal sequence of events upon going anywhere as LittleBrother is still in a convertible car seat and unable to undo his own five point harness. LittleBrother is usually quite cooperative with this chain of events. However, the argument that they had just endured apparently set him off and he was having none of it.

Before I could get out of the front seat and to the back door, LittleBrother had grabbed both of BigBrother’s ears and yanked. Hard. Somehow fingernails were involved. I saw some shade of red, told BigBrother to get back in his own seat, very calmly re-buckled a screaming, wiggling LittleBrother, walked around to re-buckle BigBrother and off we went to our home. I calmly explained, for the umpteenth time, that we do not purposefully hurt one another. I had to bite my lip not to totally flip my lid.

I’d say something about my words falling on deaf ears, but poor BigBrother’s ears were bright red and it’s quite possible he couldn’t hear me over his brother’s squealing.

I don’t know what to do.

This is where some people tell me that brothers roughhouse and that boys are physical creatures. And that sibling rivalry is normal. And that they do love each other, but it’s hard to have a sibling that close in age. And a bunch of excuses. But I can’t handle all the fighting. I don’t care that ten minutes later they’re giggling over who said poop. I don’t care that they give hugs and kisses and generally love all over each other. I can’t handle the fighting. The constant bickering over nothing — who can sit in the driver’s seat of the fire truck at the fire department — and everything — who gets the Cars spoon at breakfast — is barely tolerable and, thankfully, they mostly work it out on their own.

But this?

I worry. I worry about broken arms. I worry that this is genetically my fault. I worry that maybe it’s not genetics and that it’s just my lousy parenting. I worry that it will never end. I worry that I screwed both of the boys out of ever being emotionally mature because I cheated them out of a sister. In short, I worry.

We had the boys close in age due in part to my health, but also because we wanted them to have that “friend” we didn’t have in our siblings growing up. FireDad’s sister is eight years older; I am eight years older than my brother. I only now think my brother is mostly cool if not still slightly annoying. We wanted our children to have that bond. Not to beat each other senseless. I am aware that sibling rivalry does and will continue to exist. But I’m already tired of it. And they’re so young.

I suppose all I can do is continue trying to keep my cool when tempers flare, model good behavior (which might mean not calling my brother a buttface while the kids are in earshot) and, I don’t know, pray that something changes. Soon.

And that we see more of this.

Soon.

_
[At least they're happy in the morning. What's your morning routine? Tell me and win $100.]

The latter being the kicker.

LittleBrother is a social dude. His “awkward-hide-behind-Mommy’s-skirt” phase pales in comparison to how BigBrother refused to socialize at the same age. He likes other people, especially other kids. But his interaction with large numbers of other children are limited to an hour at the YMCA (er, “The Y”) child care (seven kids max). Even our church’s child care is limited in numbers right now. So while LittleBrother loves kids, he’s never really been in a setting where there were lots and lots of kids. (At the beginning of the week, one class featured 12 boys and 6 girls. Numbers have continued to rise as the week has gone on.)

Things have gone extremely well for both boys. Until yesterday.

Due to the size of the class, they have separated the kids by age when it comes time for crafts. The younger kids need more help and sit at one table, while the older kids who need less help sit at another table. This means that BigBrother and LittleBrother are, woe, separated. Of course, they’ll be separated by classrooms this fall in preschool, so it had to happen at some point. I’m not overly concerned, but I didn’t know how LittleBrother might respond. His brother has always been there, for better or worse. Back to craft time yesterday…

Someone spilled water on LittleBrother’s Toy Story sandals. Despite my repeated explanations that water doesn’t hurt, LittleBrother freaks out about spilled water. Especially on him. And apparently especially on his beloved sandals. So, he cried.

Now, remember, I’m not in class, too. The following happened organically.

BigBrother walked over to LittleBrother, took his cheeks in his hands (which we call “cheeky-cheeks”), gave him a hug and kiss and told him that it would be okay. And LittleBrother stopped crying.

Pardon me while I melt. And then pardon me while I attempt to figure out why they can’t act like that at home.

I am so, so, so, so glad they have each other. (And yes, I will remind them of this story forever.)

LittleBrother’s courageous streak is why the child was in a toddler bed before he was a year old. Climber McGee wouldn’t stay put. He keeps me on the edge of my parenting desires. I don’t want to be the Helicopter Parent at the playground. But, man, it would be great if the child would remember that he’s not even three yet and quit trying to be such a Big Kid all the time because I also don’t want him to have another concussion.

At least he’s having fun, right? Or so it seems as I caught him on the underside of one of the play things at our park’s playground during a playdate with another firefighter’s son this week. He was kicking his legs out and swinging by his hands.

Not even three. I’m doomed.

He also launched himself down a (covered) slide head first simply because he saw a Big Kid do it. You can see his brain working as he watches older kids on the playground. “What’s that kid doing? Oh, I see. He’s hanging upside down from the horse. Hmm, I wonder if I can do that, too?” Off he runs. He cracks me up. He worries me so. He is his own person. For that, I am glad.

Of course, then he taught the other firefighter’s son, just barely three, how to do it as well.

And there’s BigBrother, feet firmly planted on the ground, bossing everyone around.

Doomed. Doomed. Doomed.

_
[For more fun, this week's You Capture theme, visit I Should Be Folding Laundry. Next week is water.]

BigBrother is four (and a half). LittleBrother is two (and a half).  As wonderful and intelligent and awesome as they both are, they are both individually maddening.

BigBrother is stubborn. He not only looks like me but has my exact personality. But younger and male. I’m stubborn. And he’s me. But with less impulse control. Last week he stomped his foot at me and yelled, “No!” It took all of my impulse control not to explode like a volcano, my ash cloud of anger spewing forth enough dark cloud of doom to ruin the rest of our day. I kept myself in check and sent him to his room for the appropriate length of a time out. I find it easy to discipline him for various reasons. His acts of defiance are bold and evident, the in your face kind of actions that you can’t ignore. He also knows when he’s done something wrong, the guilt evident on his face as soon as he stomped his foot. Lastly, he responds very well to time out though it took some time for us both to figure that process out.

LittleBrother is sly. Where BigBrother will stomp and tell you no to your face, LittleBrother will smile at you, charming your face off while attempting to stick the fork in the light socket behind his back. I find it more difficult to discipline him for various reasons. At two-and-a-half, he’s right at the cusp of fully understanding time out. He does, for the most part, and for that I am grateful. But sometimes, as BigBrother did at that age, he simply doesn’t care. More over, it’s really hard to be angry at a charmer. I know. He is his Daddy, also a charmer. Lastly, I’m not sure how to discipline a sly, charming child. I am neither sly nor charming. I can handle stubborn. What do you do with a child when you’re not 100% sure that they’re the one who did the thing in the first place?

I worry about the fact that I find it easier to discipline one over the other. Is it really and mostly based on their age difference and understanding of discipline? Or is it that I expect more of my oldest, as I complained about growing up. Or is it that I struggle in dealing with my own personality flaws over the personality flaws of someone I adore? I don’t know. I’ve been trying to keep myself in check lately, asking myself before I break up a sharing fight, if I’m being fair to the other child when I order that one be allowed to have the toy this time. Is it possible to favor an age, not the child? I find LittleBrother’s age, despite being in the infamous Terrible Twos, to be far easier than the Constantly Questioning/Demanding/Arguing Fours. Is favoring acceptable as long as it doesn’t become favoriting? Where is the line?

I don’t know the answers. I do know that I’ve been spending some time mentally examining these questions on a daily basis, keeping track of the times that I tell one child no over the other, come to the defense of one over the other or generally discipline either one or the other. More over, I have started whispering things in their ears in moments of calm, when I’m alone with one or the other or when one runs up to give me an impromptu hug while we’re all playing outside.

“You’re my favorite BigBrotherName.”

No comma. It’s true. He’s my favorite person with that name.

“You’re my favorite LittleBrotherName.”

No comma. It’s true. He’s my favorite person with that name.

It brings to mind the book You’re All My Favorites. The truth is that they are all my favorites and that Munchkin is my favorite person with the MunchkinName. I’m hoping that by examining why I’ve been more easily aggravated with one over the other (because, let’s face it, it’s not always BigBrother creating havoc as LittleBrother is two and, oh my, he can and will totally act like a two year old without warning or reason), I can become a better mother. Or, maybe not a better mother in general, but become the mother that they need me to be at any given moment.

Whatever the answers to these questions, my verbal way of dealing with the issue of favoritism has had a pay off for me. Most often, when I tell whatever child that they are my favorite name, I am overjoyed to hear this response:

“You’re my favorite Mommy.”

No comma needed. It says everything.

_
Congrats to Red Pen Mama for winning our Mother’s Day book giveaway! Thanks to everyone for entering. And don’t forget, you can still help BlogHer donate books to children in need simply by leaving a comment on this post!

FireDad looked at me and said, “Will they ever stop yelling?” I snorted.

We then recalled a discussion in my parents’ kitchen this past January after my Grandpa’s funeral. My Dad has two brothers. The middle brother is three years younger and only 23 months separate the younger two. If you think I’m loud, you haven’t met my uncles. Eventually a discussion evolved as to whether Brett Favre was a putz or not. One uncle defended Favre while the other loudly proclaimed his putzness. They argued back and forth for awhile, hands flailing and insults flying. Eventually my Dad, the wise older brother spoke up with wisdom: “You’re both wrong.”

FireDad and I laughed, remembering the noise level, the yelling and the general amusement at two grown adults, two brothers, arguing with passion. They really could have believed the same but would have argued with one another just for the sake of arguing. FireDad concluded that from the example of brothers within our family, our two will likely never stop yelling. About something. About nothing. About anything.

Just yesterday, we were playing in the yard. We were all wearing hooded sweatshirts because of the cold April weather. LittleBrother’s hoodie fell off and he asked for help putting it back on. BigBrother raced in to rescue his younger brother. LittleBrother, of course, wanted none of that, and proceeded to try and run away from the unwanted help. Yelling, whining and falling down happened. I, of course, snapped pictures while giggle-snorting.

I think I may eventually need to invest in ear plugs. I shudder to think how loud a family evening might get if one of these boys ends up being a fan of any Ohio sports team. It may be loud here but I kinda like it. I mean, have you met me? I’m not exactly quiet myself. (That may or may not be the understatement of the year.)

_
[Check out my posts at Mom Central Technology this week. One talks about a great money saving website and the other asks your opinion on airbrushing kids' school photos.]