It’s rarely quiet when you have three young boys in the house. You never really learn to like it, but you start to get used to it. It’s kind of like the nerve-grating din of a construction crew, only more obnoxious. So when it does get quiet, you assume that either something’s wrong or something’s about to go down.
This morning we heard a brief silence followed by increasingly animal-like guttural sounds coming from the living room. Karin asked them what they were doing. Another brief silence followed by more giggling and animal sounds. So I went in to see what was going on before the inevitable breakdown. (Here’s what the typical progression looks like: have stupid idea, act on stupid idea, get more and more wild because it’s fun, take it too far and hurt someone, hurt back in retaliation, cry and tattle, defend yourself with statement that begins with “well, he…”)
So I walk in to find Thing One and Thing Two sitting on the floor, taking turns kicking each other in the chest. They’re not doing it hard (yet) so I watch for a few seconds in silence. I can tell it’s about to turn ugly, so I say in my stern dad voice, “WHAT are you doing?” followed by all the usual stuff you say to kids: keep your body parts to yourself, etc. Do you understand?
I’m clearly delusional in my perceived parental effectiveness because I walked away with some sense of satisfaction thinking, “maybe they actually heard me this time…” Naturally, not an hour later, they’re at it again, which earns each of them a time-out, and me a dumb dad badge. (Silly rabbit, children are special.)
Why is it that my one “special needs” kid is often the least troublesome? *shrug*
Parenting from the bungalow,
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