By Sonya Spillmann
@sonyaspillmann

Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. “Mooooooooooooooom!” 

Then another, very familiar, voice, “Mooooooooooooommmmmmm!”

Wholly unamused, I look up at my two boys, both fuming. 

“Mom, he threw the ball at my foot—” 

“He threw the ball at me first!”

“I wouldn’t have done it if you… “ they go at each other and my eyes gloss over (for so often do I preside over such exchanges). I shake my head back into the moment. 

“What happened?” I ask the first boy, while also asking—but really telling—the other one to not speak until I’ve finished here. “Was it on purpose?” I listen to his answer. Then I repeat the questions with the other child, get more information. (For the record: the initial insult was a questionably non-purposeful instigation followed by a very on purpose retributory reaction). 

“You need to apologize to each other,” I say. 

“But it wasn’t my fault!” one starts. 

“He did it to me first,” the other one justifies. 

I give them both a look. Really? We have to do this again?  

“I’m sorry I hit your ball,” one says, a decibel above mumbling. 

The other spits, “I’m sorry I threw the ball at your face.” 

“But you’re not sorry! MOM! He’s not sorry.” 

“Well neither are you!” the other shouts back like a shotgun blast. 

They both look at me, and I almost laugh. I have nothing left. “I can’t make you be sorry,” I admit. You can take a horse to water, isn’t that how the saying goes? No matter what words I say, or make them say, it’s not in my power to change their hearts. One’s face is red, jaw clenched. The other’s mouth is tense, he kicks at something on the floor. “You’ve heard each other, so forgive the offense or hold onto it,” I say. “It’s your choice.” 

***

The first person to ever punch me in the face was my brother. Hold on. Let me rephrase: the only person to ever punch me anywhere was my brother. He was eight, in second grade and all of maybe forty-three pounds. He recently braved getting his eyebrows wet in the pool. I was two years his senior, in the double digits, and on this day, I must have been a terrible older sister. 

We were visiting my aunt and uncle's house, and my brother and I were fascinated by my cousin’s trundle bed —it’s a bed under a bed! I have no memory of what I said or did to make him so mad, but one second we’re snooping around, trying not to get our fingers chopped off by the trundle springs, and the next my brother is running out of the room fuming. Unwilling to put myself in harm's way alone (we must have been warned not to touch the bed, such was my fear), I plopped down at my cousin’s desk in a huff. I swiveled the chair and waited. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. 

Our parents, of the Don’t Call Us Unless You’re Bleeding ilk, were downstairs on the main floor, probably discussing some pressing church issue with my aunt and uncle. Most likely, they still sat at, or recently left, the table full of food we’d all just eaten at. After the meal, kids were expected to go play. Usually, our older cousins would entertain us (though in one unfortunate incident, a cousin cut my bangs and my mother cried, “They’re only an inch long!”) but the cousins weren’t home that day. So my brother and I set off to explore—but not get into trouble—in the upstairs bedrooms. As long as we didn’t complain, cry, or hurt ourselves, we were free to roam.

I sat at the desk and stared at a framed map on the white wall. Then without warning, my brother ran into the room with his chicken-wingette arm cocked. He landed a fist square on my left cheek and ran right back out, skinny arms and legs a flash. The left side of my face screamed a hot pain, my jaw throbbed. I don’t remember if I sought retribution, only that I was shocked—did he just … ? I didn’t cry, at least I don’t think I did, and I highly doubt my parents ever knew. 

***

I currently have four kids who fight constantly, and I’d like to sugar coat this into something sweet. I wish I could say it’s not that bad or laugh it off or wave it away with a “oh, those kids.” I’d prefer to pretend I have it all under control. But I don’t. Not at all. Every single thing is a competition. Every interaction a joust.  

When my kids were younger, they fought over toys, or books—even me. “Mine.” “No, miiiiinnnnne.”

I always intervened, offered alternatives, distraction, guidance, and correction when needed. But more often than not, when their play wasn’t parallel, it actually was sweet, collaborative, and generative. But life is different now. They are different now. And when anyone asks how the kids are doing, my standard answer is, There are a lot of dynamics to manage. 

Did my kids learn how to pick on each other from me? How to bicker from their dad and I? Have I not given them enough love? Do they need more eye-contact? Hugs? Is it because we never got around to doing those parent-kid dates? 

Whatever it is, my kids fight through playing Beyblades, basketball, Uno, Legos. They fight at breakfast, lunch, snacktime, dinner. Maybe they’re vying for a superior couch position, or optimal standing room while tooth brushing, pajama donning, bedmaking, or dishwasher unloading. It doesn’t matter. They fight all the time. 

I need to know. Are they competing with each other for my attention? For my love?

Or are they simply working out their individual personalities in the context of each other, within the safety and structure of our family? Within the four walls of our home? 

This entire year has been a lesson for us in managing emotions. In practicing self control. In not having our normal routines and outlets and space and friendships. To be frank, the kids are so so sick of each other. To be frank, I am sick of them being sick of each other. Yet over and over again, I also see them trying. Trying to get along. Trying to re-engage. Trying out what it feels like to apologize and mean it. Trying to circle back and give it another shot. They fight, yes, but they’re also learning to forgive and move on. 

***

The boys go their separate ways, one outside, the other inside. Both are still mad, and I feel like I’ve failed. I take a deep breath and shake my head. I just don’t know what else to do. 

I think of my brother, how he’s now one of my dearest friends. 

And I wonder, for all the exhaustion their fighting causes me, can I try, try, to see my role in managing their challenging dynamics differently? Not that I won’t reach my limit daily, get fed up and simply tell them to stop. Not that I won’t send them outside or away to go play, and will inevitably miss when they clash and trouble crashes. But what if I considered each conflict—easily resolved or not—an opportunity? What if I saw these moments as opportunities? To pour another layer into the foundation of solid family connection? 

It doesn’t take long before one child’s path crosses again with the other’s. They find a new game, a new rhythm with ease. There will likely be a new offense in just a minute, I know it’s coming. But for now, at this moment, there’s peace. And maybe in this season, that’s all a mother can hope for. 

Photo by Lottie Caiella.