When I had my first child, I knew right away that I’d want a second. It wasn’t because I loved childbirth so much that I wanted to keep reproducing. I just liked the idea of giving my child a lifelong companion. Having grown up with 3 siblings, it’s all I knew.  

Little did I realize that signing up for Motherhood automatically signs you up for the role of full-time referee. However, if I had wanted that gig, I would have joined a sport. Many years ago, I remember standing between my teenage sisters crying ‘why can’t we all just get along?‘ I hated when they’d fight. Fast forward to now, and I’m a 43-year-old woman standing between two mini-me’s, asking the same question. Forever the peacekeeper, I am.

It’s natural for siblings to fight, I know. However, is it natural for siblings to fight over, well, anything?

Things my kids fight about:

• Farts: I kid you not, they have fought over farts. Who farted, who took too long to admit it and who smells worse. They have proven that whoever smelt it may not have dealt it.

• Who forgot to flush: One child blames the other, yet both deny that they pooped. Well, someone had to because the toilet didn’t shit itself, now did it and it sure as heck wasn’t me.

• The TV remote: They both want it and can never agree on a show. Then, once a show is on, oddly enough someone finds the volume ‘too loud’.

• Sitting in the front seat of the car: My youngest son isn’t even old enough to sit in the front seat, yet they still fight over this. He always calls ‘shotgun’ when walking towards the car, just to piss off his brother. It works, every time.
• Chores: We rotate daily who dries the dishes and who puts them away. It’s always a sweet after dinner treat to hear them argue over whose turn it is to do what.
• The phone charger: One of my kids always needs a charger, and no one can ever find one. Both will claim they didn’t have it last. Oh, and apparently, the kid with the lowest percentage of battery remaining trumps the other. “How much battery do you have? I have 5%“
• Brushing their teeth: Nothing sets the mood for bedtime quite like one kid pushing the other out of the way of the sink. “MOM, I was here first!” one will yell, while the other one stands nearby with a mouthful of toothpaste. Venom in his eyes, and spit in his mouth. Hush little babies don’t say word.
• Who did it (he said/he said): This one has to be the worst. Both have their side of the story, drastically different. Of course, in each story, the sibling is in the wrong. It’s often hard to know who’s telling the truth. Who hit who first, or who said a bad word, or insulted the other?  Often, there are tears and it’s hard to know who did what.  Referee, interrogator, private investigator, and judge. This mama wears many hats.

I can chuckle now as I read these, but the truth is I wish their fighting didn’t faze me. I often wish I were one of those cool as a cucumber mom’s. You know the type. The ones who can just break up the fights with no emotion involved. They simply ignore the commotion and walk away, letting the kids figure it out for themselves through screams or fists. Instead, I get consumed by the fighting. It drains me emotionally, taking a toll on my mental health.

The funny thing is, as often as they fight, they don’t. They go from one extreme to the other in a split second. Often, it’s unexpected and catches me off guard. They could be sitting side by side, not at all bothered by the presence of the other. Then, within 16 seconds, the fact that the other one is breathing threatens a war.

Then, there are the times when I know what’s coming. I try to prevent it before the gloves come off. Usually this starts with them being hyper and laughing, perhaps getting along TOO well. Before you know it, someone is hurt and it’s time to enter the ring.

Despite the frequency and intensity of the fighting, I know my boys don’t hate one another. That’s the silver lining, I guess. Rarely do they hurl such hurtful words (as hate), which I’m thankful for. They are also fiercely protective of one another. They will always say I love you before their heads hit the pillow, no matter what had transpired that day. Once, my oldest son apologized to his brother for being rude to him.  I nearly passed out cold junk in the other room when I heard the exchange. But I’ll take that as a parenting win!

I have a feeling the bickering, arguing, tormenting, and attitude will get worse before it gets better, as they age. Two boys, only 2.5 years apart, what can you expect? However, I will keep reminding (or trying to convince) myself that all this fighting is just temporary. That’s what this ref is holding onto. You can’t win em’ all!

Christmas 2022, I gave my counsellor a pencil for Christmas. While it accompanied a journal, the main part of the gift was a pencil. I know to you it may sound silly, but it was not. In fact, for a short period of time, while adjusting to life after divorce, I walked around with a pencil in my purse. I had no intentions of using it. It was symbolic, as my counsellor had explained. And I needed a constant reminder of that, so I carried it with me.

I remember, a couple of years prior, sitting on her couch, crying. The stereotypical therapy session, right? I owe this woman 20 boxes of tissues, I am sure of it. This session wasn’t long after I separated from my spouse, after 8 years of marriage and 20 years together. I remember saying “this wasn’t my plan for life”. She took out a pencil and said, “Do you know why pencils have erasers?”  I said, “to erase mistakes”. She simply said “No, but plans change” and went on to explain that plans are fluent. We often get a chance for a do over. This was one of those chances.

It made complete sense, and I cried harder. Maybe because at the time I didn’t want things to change because I was so lonely and scared to death. I was coming to terms with my divorce, trying to keep myself together, while caring for my kids, who also felt like they were falling apart.

I’ve always been resistant to change. I never handled it well. While I know that good things can come from change, I’m very much a creature of habit so anything new, anything that disrupts the equilibrium of life, is terrifying in my mind.

Yet there I was, a 37 year old woman who had been with her spouse for literally more than half of her life, in unchartered territory. Alone. Two kids in tow. One income. No house. Broken.

While I don’t like referring to myself as ‘broken’ back then, but when I was unable to get off the bathroom floor from crying, there is no other way to describe how I felt other than broken.  My life, my heart, my family, my emotions, all shattered in pieces on the bathroom floor. No amount of glue could put them back together, I thought. I felt.

Something my counsellor said during that session resonated with me. Broken implies damaged beyond repair. I changed my thinking and saw myself as shattered, but someday my pieces would go back together, just in a different way. I would be slightly different than I was before, but no less beautiful. She said I’d be stronger. I liked that idea.

It’s been 6 years since that session. While I feel there are still pieces that need tighter glue to stay in place, I am back together. Not without scars, flaws or carrying around pieces of myself that still carry the weight of the past so heavily. But I’m in one piece. My counsellor was right……. I am different. I am most definitely stronger. Bathroom floors are strictly for cleaning these days.

I recently discovered a song by Kelly Clarkson called ‘Broken and beautiful’. When I play it, I sing it loud and proud, especially when she says “I know I’m superwoman. I know I’m strong. I know I’ve got this cause I’ve had it all along.  I’m phenomenal. I’m enough. I don’t need you to tell me who to be”.

Kelly sings “I’m broken and it’s beautiful”. However, when I sing it, I say “I’m reconstructed and it’s beautiful’. For some reason, it doesn’t have the same effect. Perhaps that’s why she’s the professional sing/songwriter. I’ll just stick to my blog.