Bickering. That’s what my parents called it. “Stop bickering!” they’d hiss menacingly from the car’s front seat. Immediately my brother and I would stare out through opposite car windows, biding our time so we could open the discussion again out of parental earshot.
Our discussions went something like this:
“No, I’m right!”
“I’m older, so I’m more right.”
[Silence. Age is sacrosanct. Every child knows that his place in the universe is predicated on age.]
Invoking the deity: “Mooooooom!”
Knowing everything that I knew about what it was like to grow up with an older brother and the fights that ensued, I went ahead and had kids anyway. Like squeezing out cookies from the cookie press that you drag out at holidays. One, two, three, four. And the kids fought. Mainly it’s Number Two and Number Three, since Number One is light-years older than the rest and Number Four has his own agenda. Fine, the other two more than make up for any lack of effort on the part of the others. Fight, fight, fight.
What’s a parent to do when siblings fight?
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