Sibling Smackdown

I awoke from a dream this morning, and thought I was having a nightmare. I was in my bed, in my room, but my room had been placed in the middle of war torn Bosnia. I could clearly hear children screaming and crying for their mothers as the village burned down all around them, incoming mortar shells exploding like the bass drum of some rag tag brass band at a drunken jazz funeral. Turns out it was just the twins fighting over a particular toy train, and the loud banging of said toy against TV stand.

Watching this aggression manifest itself from deep inside the monkey parts of my children's brains is oddly entertaining. It's the same thing as boxing or Ultimate Fighting, although it more closely resembles midget wrestling. Little people, large disproportionate heads, and rudimentary motor skills on glorious display. We never let it go unpunished, but part of me wonders what would happen if we did. Jack is the clear favorite with his size and reach marking quite an advantage over his sister. And his take down move is very effective. But I can't help root for the underdog, and if Ella's red hair is any indication of her temperament, Jack would never know what hit him if she ever blew a fuse.

I was hatching plans of building a cage in the backyard and surrounding it with bleachers to charge admission and make a little extra cash when I remembered the fate of Michael Vick. And those were just dogs. Perhaps the world just isn't ready to witness Jack's inhumanity to Ella. It's a shame, too, because I was ready to tattoo his face and train him to go for the ears. Instead of hiring Don King to promote the "Sibling Smackdown" and retiring on the pay-per-view profits, we'll just sentence Jack to another five minutes of time out, then force him to say "Sorry" and hug and kiss his darling little sister. I guess I'm just a sucker for a happy ending.