Friday, August 2, 2013

A Punch is Worth A Thousand Words

"And now we'll sing a little song I penned, called, "We Fight So Much, Mom Had To Be Committed."

Afternoon Readers,

You don't know because you don't live with us (prayers of thanksgiving should be saved for the end of this post, so you don't get sidetracked with your enthusiasm and forget to read these finely-crafted words), but Doc doesn't like Cheerios.

That was my reaction as well.

And, call me a stickler, but I'm not totally satisfied with, "Bweee," as an answer to the question,

"What's it like to be un-American?"

National staples aside, the children are up to far more annoying things than not eating cereal, or ripping the cereal boxes open vertically, or pouring raw oatmeal all over the floor before I make it out of bed. Prompting me to shout things like, "Why do we own raw oatmeal?", before realizing my robe's flown open, grabbing the broom, and giving up before 9am.

Nay, the fighting.

The fighting will kill me.

I was reading an article in a magazine I made up that said one out of every eight mothers will die from listening to their children fight. Shocking statistics, to be sure, but it explains the many times I've seen confused women wandering in the middle of the street, wearing nothing but a nightgown, and a sign saying, "Free to a loving home."

By finding a way to bicker over pretty much everything, Butch and Sundance do nothing to bring down the numbers, and give my fake polling a little more levity.

Bless them.

Or not.

Or maybe, because now I feel bad.

The only interesting thing I've learned from the bar fights that begin at 6:30am is that there are literally a million legitimate reasons to punch someone in the face when you're three.

Ok, not literally. I hate when that word's used improperly. I'm actually only up to 5,358 reasons.

From what I gather, here are the top five most popular:

1.) You touched me.

2.) You talked to me.

3.) You looked at me.

4.) You're breathing next to me.

5.) You climbed on my bed, stole my book, are holding it out of my reach, waving it, and have an utter disregard for the fact our mother's head just spun around downstairs and she's now heading to the second level of the house like a freight train who just wants to look at stupid memes on the internet because she's tired of having to remedy #5 on this list.

Until Next Time, Readers!



  1. I hate 6:30 AM bar fights, especially the ones on Sunday morning that begin with blaring voices and lights that turn me into a literal growling bear. No, really. A bear.

    1. I believe it. I'm pretty sure I turned into a majestic Kodiak around 7am on Saturday.

  2. I think you just described a "normal" family with small children!!

    1. That makes me feel little bit better ....I think...;)

  3. My mom, I mean, my friend's mom used to scream "Let the fighting begin!" before answering the phone. Apparently, mom being on the phone was the signal to start fighting and being loud!
    Justin Knight
    Writing Pad Dad

    1. True story. The minute the twins see me pick up the phone, things escalate to a whole other level. Which is why I never answer the phone. My apologies to those trying to reach me.

  4. You make me smile from head to toe. Does it ever end- oh yes it does - do they ever stop punching each other - oh no they don't!!! I love the "he's looking at me" the best.

    1. The "he's looking at me" is currently in heated competition with "She's touching my foot." This is subject to change every hour. Where would we be if I didn't keep score?

  5. Oh yeah, the fighting with extra bonus summer fighting! My favorite time was when my kids fought over whose spot on the beach was better. Like, totally identical in all aspects sand.

  6. Before I had kids, I probably wouldn't have thought the beach scenario was possible, but I'm still waiting for the twins to start fighting over the best place in the shallow end of the pool, so you may now call me a believer.

  7. I like "you're breathing on me." When I was little, I drove my brother ca-RAZY singing along to the radio. And I was such a brat; I'd just sing louder. As a parent, that means I'm doomed.