I can’t believe it’s half term already. I know I’m writing this as the week in question is getting away from us, but it still seems very early in the year for Dylan and Xander to be at home all week. Now don’t get me wrong, it’s lovely to have them around more but, as my amateurish artwork suggests, there’s a flip side. You see, they seem to have formed their own little half term club. The first rule of which is that you don’t talk about it…
Yes, at every opportunity, they’re at each other’s throats. Pushing, slapping, kicking and screaming. Where have my little boys gone? I knew there would come a day that the sibling rivalry would simmer over and they’d start being aggressive towards one another. It’s what brothers often do – but never imagined it would be so soon.
Of course, we intervene at each little confrontation, telling them that fighting is wrong and sending them to further wear out the carpet in their respective naughty corners, but they don’t seem to get the message. In fact, they answer back.
Dylan readily admits to having socked his little brother in the chops, but always provides what he thinks is a worthy explanation. I fail to see how the switching on of a light in a darkened room warrants a smack, but he’s pretty convinced.
This isn’t a case of an older sibling picking on a younger one either. Xander gives as good as he gets. Despite being almost two years younger, he is much more of a physical force. Conversely, he is just as eloquent in justifying his actions once they’ve finished trading blows. They’re best mates again within minutes. I just don’t know what to do with the pair of them!
As you can probably surmise from my slightly flippant tone, I’m sure this is perfectly normal behaviour among siblings. I’m therefore not going to get too worried about it. That said, I just wouldn’t be me if I didn’t try and find an explanation to unequivocally shift any blame from my parenting skills to something else.
And I’ve found it! Look at the book that Dylan brought home from school to read during half term. I grant you there are no conches, pigs or broken glasses in it, but it’s basically William Golding all over again.
And there’s a picture of a dog turd in it.