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Dear Oprah,

Do you have a logical sense for time and amounts of things?  Hopefully like most adults, you do.  My children, however, do not.  Mikey is exceptional illogical about time—15 minutes or three hours both seem to mean forever.

Last night on the eve of Christmas break, the boys were especially ramped up.  Probably from sneaking Christmas cookies that I had baked earlier in the day.  It’s amazing that sugar and natural exuberance cause vocal volume controls to cease existing.  It also seems to cause control struggles between brothers.

From the minute we got home, I let them play in the family room while I tried to catch a cat nap in my room.  I read a some-e-card the other day that said, “If you love me, you’ll let me nap.”  Turns out after years of hugs and kisses and snuggling, Pierce doesn’t love me.  Every three minutes, I’d hear him shuffling and whining down the hall to tell me of something his brother said that was mean.  “Mikey is meeeaaaaann…he keeps repeating me.  He’s repeating everything I say and I am trying to tell him somethiiiinnnnggg.”   Funny, how we had this same problem the previous day with the roles reversed.  With my fantastic adult logic, I tried to remind Pierce of this—oh and also to GET OVER IT!  But, alas, he had to report several more affronts to his person over the next 45 minutes.  Not a single one was delivered with any dignity, either—just a bunch of wimpy whining and a snotty nose.

Mikey loves to tell his brother that he’s a little 4-year-old (he’s 5) since it irks Pierce when he’s feeling ornery.  Then I get to hear how “Mikey called me a 4-year-old!”   To which I respond, “Are you?”  “No, I’m 5.”  “Then why do you care if you know it’s not true?”  I even tried to tell him “go tell Mikey he’s a 6-year-old.”  That usually stops it.  It plays out something like this:  running down the hall with new ammunition, Pierce yells, “Mikey, you’re a little 6-year-old!”  (M) “No, I’m not, I’m eight!  Okay, fine!  You’re five and I’m eight, okay?  Okay, Pierce?!”

All day long somebody is telling on somebody else about how they were emotionally or physically wounded.  Last night was no different.  They were playing some made up transformer/army man war game, when somebody (Pierce) tried to change the rules, and somebody else (Mikey) didn’t like being dictated to (imagine that!)  Words flew!  Angry words.  Threats.  Tears and tattling.  This is where Mikey’s sense of time comes in.  He came out to tell me that Pierce wouldn’t let him kill him or some type of brotherly affection, and then went back and told him that he wouldn’t play with him for 27 years.

Pierce wounded by his brother’s words (or sense of time) and maybe some pushing and shoving, laid in my room crying and whining.  I tried ignoring, because frankly, I would get too much exercise if I got off the sofa every time somebody needed me.  Pretty soon, Dad muted the TV so that we could hear the whiny pleas from our bedroom.  “Mommy!  Mikey said he wasn’t gonna play with me for 27 years!”  Like a great mother, I just looked at dad and laughed.  Then he unmuted the TV and we carried on with our show.

Here’s list of things we hear on a daily basis:

“Mommy, Pierce told me I’m mean and he doesn’t want to be my brother.”

“Mommmmmyyyy, Mikey said he’s never playing (insert game here that Pierce currently likes) ever again!”

“Mommy!  Mikey keeps saying I’m a little four-year-old.”

“Mama, Pierce is repeating everything I say!  Make him stop!”

“Mommy, Mikey said he would be done playing his game in 147 hours.”

I am sure there will be twelve new ones today, so hang tight for more sibling rivalry.  In the meantime, tell me I am not alone!