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Omaha confidential: when sibling rivalry turns physical
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There is an unacceptable amount of violence in our city lately. Most of it happens at my house. Who knew that sibling rivalry would be this excessive? I mean, a little bickering now and then, fine, but lately, everything is cause for melodrama. “What did you do”? I’ll ask my daughter, when my son is, once again, in tears. “Nothing” is the answer. It never fails to amaze me how innocent she can look while delivering this lie.
I’ve told her that her face twitches when she lies, and that I can always tell. She sort of believed me for a while, and stopped lying about the different ways she tortures her brother for about five minutes. Then she went back to her old ways with a vengeance. They are fast, too. Nobody can move that quick, I’ll think, when one of them is on the floor, crying to the point of vomiting, while the other is on the couch, totally engrossed in a book. Don’t think that she is always the culprit; her little brother is the meanest four-year-old on the block.
Naturally, he has learned to defend himself. He has also learned that the best way to defend one’s self is to attack first. Sometimes I think I should just lock them in a room together and let them have it out. See who comes out the winner. The only reason I don’t is because they would probably use their time to come up with anti-mommy strategies. Divide and conquer; that’s my motto.
A friend of mine has four sons. The oldest one is ten; the youngest is four years old. In my opinion, that’s not just brave: it’s self-destructive. They do unspeakable things to each other. Their mom has stopped intervening. Oh, sometimes, when there is company, she’ll pretend to teach to them about not hurting each other, but mostly she just ignores them. She plays her music really loud, to drown out the screaming and crying. Luckily, she is a big fan of eighties-hair-bands. Any movie she watches has lots of explosions and stuff, because otherwise you wouldn’t be able to hear a thing.
Whenever I’m at her house, the kids are in the basement. It’s filled with toys to keep them occupied in between the fighting. Every once in a while they come up for air; I can’t tell who is who because they run too fast, but she seems to be able to tell them apart. I’m not sure they are allowed to be upstairs very often; I secretly suspect they have some kind of punch-card system: “You’ve been upstairs three times today, Maximilian, for a total time of 4-point-17 minutes. Don’t come back again. You know the rules!”
This, of course, is not very good parenting, but it is borne out of sheer desperation. Someday these kids will grow up and move out, and it will all be worth it. They can go to college, get great jobs, and pay for their parents’ therapy. “Hang in there, honey” I want to tell my friend. “Only 13 more years of this. Now pass me that bottle.”
As far as misbehaving goes, my children aren’t the only ones. Practically all children show aggression on a regular basis. This is because of Walt Disney. He has taught us that every vagabond good-for-nothing can become a Princess, and they don’t need a mother. He has also instilled in our children that disobedience pays off big time. Think about it. Cinderella goes to the ball when she’s not allowed; Snow White moves in with seven strangers, and the Little Mermaid, well. No wonder our children are messed up. “Don’t let them watch Television, then!” you say. As if. If it weren’t for the hypnotizing power of the electronic monster, I wouldn’t get a moment’s peace.
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