Let's get ready to RUMBLE!

“Is she awake?”

“I don't know- check.”

“How do I check if she's awake?”

“Poke her.”

“If I poke her, then she'll definitely wake up.”

“Mom, you awake?”

“I TOLD you to poke her.”

“I'M AWAKE!”

Thus begins the start of my day. I could try and act like I'm sleeping for a little bit longer, but it just postpones the inevitable.

Every day is like this- a fight to sleep a little bit longer, a fight to get them dressed in an outfit resembling something other than an extra from Les Miserables, a fight to get them to do their hair so they don't -once again- look like street urchins...

My life, as much as I love it, has started to look like a dialed down version of a WWE match- without the pile drivers and what not...

...though those MIGHT not be far behind.

My parents got me a program by one of those M.D.'s with all the credentials that promises “for $400, you'll have your kids saying 'Yes, Ma'am and Sir' in NO time!”

The problem isn't always them fighting with ME, though. I often find myself shouting out to the Heavens, asking if there's a program that will help with sibling bloodshed/maiming. I've yet to hear God answer me back, but it could be because I can't hear Him over the cacophony in the background. To be honest, though, I think -if we're going to go down the Biblical route- if God allowed Cain and Able to fight like cats and dogs for a reason, well, maybe there's a reason for the continual boxing match in MY house; and if THAT'S the case, it shouldn't be too long til I hear one of them shout out, “I'm not my brother's keeper!”

And all this happens before breakfast.

When I pictured my life with kids, the daily battles weren't part of the sweet scenery I envisioned. I know I was naïve, but I had a lapse in memory of how things had been with MY parents. I briefly forgot about the grand confrontations my brother and I had- one of which broke the back of a recliner and involved a stick.

I let it slip from my mind that “Yes Ma'am and Sir” weren't part of our vocabulary- that we had embraced the word “No” from the time we could talk.

I had discarded the memory of when my mom tried DESPERATELY to get me to dress in something she had wanted me to wear, and I adamantly refused.

I don't get to deny it any more, though. Those thoughts drift in and out of my mind- poltergeists, intent on tormenting me; reminding me, in every action my boys do, that I am their mother.

“Go do your hair.”

“I like it this way.”

“What way? You didn't even DO it.”

“And that's how I like it.”

They may win the battle, but I will win the war...

I hope.