The boys and I are wrestling first thing in the morning, like three little kittens, ears back, claws deep in each others arms and legs kicking into each other.
It started off playful enough, now it’s turned into war. The gentle nudges have become head butts and the pillow throw would have once bounced off your face, now is designed to torpedo into your stomach and send you splintering off the side of the bed.
Time passes so quickly in this state of Saturday morning athletica. In one way it’s good exercise, in another, it’s teaching the boys how to handle themselves at school and that not all’s fair in love and war… particularly when it’s your brother.
Time out is called for coffee and cereal. Though it’s started now, the mini men don’t stop it – all day.
If there is down time and they are free from wrestling or punching each other for the wii remote, then we are lined up to play soccer in the backyard, where rules are as fluid as they see fit and until someone’s vein pops out of their neck and chases their brother trying to thump him.
I actually stand there and wait for them to finish, though I think my time is nearly up on that game – their hitting is getting solid and causing more damage. I have to start crow-barring them apart. God help Dawn when they get bigger and I’m not there.
Seriously, where did my two Bonds baby suited boys go?
Now one of them is begging for Rebel sport vouchers for Christmas so he can buy more gear. Really? One of my children? I still don’t understand. Chick wants Lego – I get that. Beau wants footy shoes. Go figure.
I should have had a daughter, at least I could have dressed her up all cutely and swanned her down the street. Knowing my luck though, she’d probably prefer a soccer ball to a scrunchie and a hockey stick to a ballet slipper.
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