A new (insane) perspective on sibling rivalry

When I added another child to the family, I greatly multiplied the possibilities for sibling rivalry. If you were a math person, you could compute the exact number of permutations or combinations or whatever you call it. I am not a math person. I am a sandwich person.

By my count, we've got the following combos on the rivalry menu:

Big Boy vs Big Girl aka The Original Combo (Primo vs. Seconda)

Biggest vs Smallest ( Primo vs Terza)

Girl vs Girl (Terza vs Seconda)

and then your more harry fare, the two against one deals:

Bigs vs Small (Primo and Seconda vs Terza)

and

Girls vs Boy (Seconda and Terza vs Primo)

So many options for sibling throw-downs! Which is great, because variety is the spice of life!

Despite the number of possibilities, though, there is one combo that is far more popular than the others, winning by a landslide. That's the Original.

I don't know whether it's the fact that Primo vs Seconda deal has been on the menu five years longer or the fact that Primo and Seconda are just such contradictory flavors that it makes for an incendiary melange, but whatever it is, the big kids arguing accounts for 90 percent of all sibling rivalry. Roughly. I'm no mathematician.

If you're feeling irritated by this seriously overused metaphor, that really wasn't that sound in the first place, consider this: by thinking of my children as sandwich fixings and their showdowns as sibling panini, it makes the chronically unbearable business of sibling rivalry so much more tolerable. Since I don't have anything useful to offer in the way of advice for you, fellow parents, about how you might address sibling rivalry, let me suggest this coping strategy then: imagine your children as lunch meat.

It's the least I can do.

Fighting over dead hermit crabs

Is it just my kids or will siblings fight over anything?

Yesterday, one of our hermit crabs died. In point of fact, it was three or four days ago that the crab died - or, I should say, that we discovered him dead. He might have died up to a week before that. Who knows? Those animals are nocturnal so during the day they do nothing and look dead anyway. Its no wonder the kids haven't played with them, or even looked at them, in weeks. In fact, I've forgotten all about the crabs. Every so often, I'll pass by the Hermitage, as I like to call it, and I'll see their unmoving shells and I'll wonder if anyone in our house is making the slightest effort to keep them living. David is, I think. He's the zookeeper of the house, as it relates to the actual animals, and not just the children that act like animals. I'm pretty sure he wets the crabs' sponge which is the only thing one must do to keep those primitive life forms in good health.

Anyway, one night a few days ago, David said: "One hermit crab is eating the other."

"WHAT?" I cried. As you may know, I'm not the biggest animal-lover out there, and if I was, hermit crabs certainly wouldn't be the animals that won my affection but even I draw the line somewhere, "Is it alive or dead?"

"Which one?"

"The one being EATEN!"

"Dead. Definitely dead," replied David, "Though I can't tell if it was dead first or dead once the eating began."

"David," I said, "That is really fucked up."

And then, "Do something!"

He did. He threw the dead one out in the garbage.

I figured that he'd handle breaking the news to the kids. Honestly, they haven't so much as glanced in the direction of the Hermitage in weeks so I didn't think they'd be all that broken up about it.

Which was naive, on my part. I found this out when I accidentally broke the news to them while telling it to their part time babysitter.

"Yeah, we're down to one crab now. A one-crab household," I told her.

"What?" exclaimed Seconda, "What happened to the other one?"

"Well, honey, it died," I informed her gently.

"WHICH ONE?" she shrieked, "Whose crab?"

"I don't know," I answered honestly, "They both look exactly the same to me. I can't tell them apart."

"It was Primo's!" she affirmed.

"WHAT?" Primo piped up, "My hermit crab died? How do you know it was mine?"

"I just KNOW!"

"That is SO unfair! Why didn't SECONDA'S die?"

He did not appear to be upset that the crab had passed on, just upset that Seconda's hadn't.

This, among other reasons, is why you should not acquire hermit crabs. They may be easy to keep alive - requiring little to no effort -- but they will cause problems, even after death.

"Now what?" Primo asked, "Its just not fair that Seconda has a pet and I don't."

I was considering telling them to share the existing crab -- a joint custody situation -- or pointing out that we don't actually know whose crab died, seeing as they were pretty much interchangeable -- but then I decided to go with: "Life isn't fair."

Which is true enough.

"But to console you after this terrible heartbreak, I will allow you to play video games for ten minutes. WIll that soften the blow?"

"YES!" Primo exclaimed.

RIP Hermes. I may not be an animal-lover, may not even be able to identify the crab in a line-up but I do remember his name.

Hurricane Babies and Hurricane Divorces

I wonder how many hurricane babies were created over the past week?

And how many hurricane divorces? Because when you already have one, or two, or wait for it -- three babies running around your apartment with an intense case of cabin fever and record amounts of energy, there is no slim possibility of banishing boredom with some carnal embraces. And without the carnal embraces, all you're left with is bickering. Especially when you've just moved into a new apartment and there's about five thousand little, totally-non-essential things to be done to make Mama of the House happy and Daddy of the House beleaguered.

I've been trying to trap David at home to hang up pictures and change lighting fixtures and seal the countertop forever, and now I have but after five days at home with Franken-children, he's too grumpy to comply. We are both nearing fatal levels of grumpiness. Kids not faring much better. Seconda and Primo are locked into mortal kombat sibling rivalry from where there may be no return. Getting back to school yesterday was a tiny reprieve but then with the day off today, it was back to warfare. Those two will end up getting a divorce if we lose any more days of school.

Of course, its pretty damn innocuous stuff compared with losing your home and everything you have. So I feel duly guilty about complaining. In atonement, I think I'll volunteer my husband to donate blood or manually scoop water out of a flooded tunnel.

Mortal Kombat: Sibling Edition

Lately, my kids have been beating each other senseless and -- call me crazy -- I can't stand it. The fistfights are a relatively new development and an extremely unpleasant one. I mean, Primo, 7, and Seconda, 5, have always fought but recently they've taken their squabbles to a new level which is bit too physical for my taste. Its like when the baby came, they just decided that three kids was too many for this family and they'd better trim those numbers down by killing each other. The kid gloves, so to speak, are off.

It usually begins with Sec pestering Primo in some terribly aggravating way that only a kid sister could manage, like calling him a silly name or swatting at him with her little talons or  shoving the last cookie in her mouth even though she already ate hers and her brother hasn't had any yet. She does this approximately four hundred times in the course of a normal day. And for the first two or three instances, Primo usually manages to maintain his composure. But then apropos of nothing, she'll call him Professor Poopyface and its like, that was the last straw. He just suddenly blows his top, and its Unleash-the-Kraken Time.

I'm sure there are all sorts of collaborative problem solving techniques I could be employing to trouble-shoot this and I try, I really do, but I also have a newborn and am trying to find us a place to live that boasts more than one bedroom for five people. I'm busy. So I usually end up screaming "Stop it you two!" or "Why did I bother having children if they were just going to kill each other?" or "One day, you'll regret acting like this!" or some other such ineffectual phrase.

This weekend, the kids really outdid themselves with their sibling smackdowns. We went up to Fort Tryon park for the first birthday party of my best friend's son. The weather was sublime and the scene was bucolic  -- a dozen or so grown-ups wearing summer dresses and khakis,sitting on picnic blankets, drinking lemonade, while the super adorable birthday boy toddled around in a bow tie. It was the kind of scene we don't belong in.

At first my kids were kind of shy and this made them stick together, holding hands as they selected sandwiches and sitting next to each other as they ate birthday cake. They managed to convince the party-goers that they liked each other, and that they could be civilized.

"Awwww, they're so sweet with each other," a child-less young woman cooed as she watched them.
"Just wait, lady," I thought.

And, much as I hate to say it, I was right. As soon as they got comfortable in the party environs, they got feisty. They began chasing each other and playing tag and then I knew we'd be in for a barroom style brawl. After a bit, when the kids started wrestling dangerously close to what remained of the birthday cake, my friend offered them a tub of bubbles. Not one to share, mind you, but one bubble tub for each of them. In other words, what could there possibly be to fight over? I figured this would buy me at least 10 minutes of peace and quiet. Kids go cuckoo for bubbles, even the big kids. Its just one of those things.

But five minutes later, I saw the kids were running around again, now playing tag WITH the bubbles in hand. Before I could stop them, Sec stumbled and fell, dropping her bubbles to the ground, where they gurgled out to empty in a matter of seconds. A look of black rage passed across her face. And I could have put money on what happened next. She raced over to her brother and promptly knocked the bubbles out of his hand, causing a huge belch of bubble juice to be poured on the ground. I know Primo so I know that he was planning to keep those bubbles all summer, to apportion only a certain milligram dose of bubble juice per day so that it would last and last and last and he'd never run out of bubble juice. He can get kind of Scroogey about this stuff. So when she caused his bubble juice to be squandered, to just sink into the dirt like that, he went loco. You could virtually see him let go of his grip on sanity as he grabbed the bubble tub off the ground and tossed its entire contents directly into his sisters face.

Not the general vicinity of her head or her front half, but DIRECTLY INTO HER FACE.

We all stood there dumbstruck as highly concentrated soap doused Sec's eyes and nose and mouth. And of course her mouth was open. Agape. She was shocked.

And then she started screaming.  No specific words, just general screaming. I was nursing the baby and couldn't get up, but I barked orders helpfully from the grass.

"DO something!" I told my husband David.

"Just LOOK at her!" he replied.

It did seem impossible to believe that one could remove the soap from her body's surface, it was so saturated with it. You'd need a swimming pool or at least a very powerful hose to get the job done. And we were in the middle of a park and wouldn't you know, no where near an emergency eye wash station.

I tossed him a Poland Springs water bottle.

"Are you kidding me?" he asked, "What am I supposed to do with THIS?"

Seconda was now sputtering and spitting, trying to get the foul taste of soap out her mouth. She was also blinking madly and screaming. "MY EYES ARE BURNING!" and then, realizing that might be a bad sign, she started hollering, "I DON"T WANT TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL!!! PLEASE! DON'T TAKE ME TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM!"

Meanwhile Primo got his voice back and started trying desperately to defend himself, reminding me that she'd started it. Which of course is SO relevant. At which point I hissed that he should go away, far away. OK, not too far away, since we were in a public park, but there, over there by that tree. Where I couldn't hear him.

Then David started the colossal task of rinsing Sec off, in the process soaking her thoroughly. Eventually, we were able to convince her she wouldn't need to go to the hospital and she calmed down and started to enjoy her role as victim.

"I just can't believe my own brother poured the bubble juice right into my eyes!" she mused out loud to anyone who'd listen, "And for no reason!"

This threw Primo back into a dissociative homicidal rage, on and off for most of the afternoon.

"Should we go home?" I asked David, "She's soaking wet and her face is still coated in soap and the kids hate each other."

"Just put her in the sun to dry," he counseled, "And we'll go to the Cloisters."

That's just how we roll. If we let a little ruthless sibling smackdown deter us, we'd never do anything or get anywhere.   And the upside? Seconda is assuredly the cleanest little girl in America. And she's got a good story.

Mommy Power Trip

If you want to annoy your big brother, nothing does the trick like bossing him around.

From Primo’s perspective, he already has one Mommy, and he doesn’t need another, particularly a four year-old one with no flexibility, patience or impulse control.

“OK, OK, Primo, we’ll find your Lego figure,” she assures him, “Just relax, OK, just take a deeeeeeep breath and reeeelaa-“

“STOP ACTING LIKE A GROWN-UP!” he yells.

“I know its annoying, Prim,” I say, “But the only alternative is her acting like a four year-old which is much worse.”

Sec is fond of using “Mommy” techniques to promote her own agenda. Her favorite is counting to three.

“Gimme a lick of that ice cream! PRIMO! GIMME A LICK OF THAT ICE CREAM! Do you HEAR me? I’m going to count to three and you better give me a lick of that ice cream cone, or you’re going to lose your dessert. One. Two . . . “

Its not how “1.2.3 Magic” suggests implanting the technique but, crazily enough, it works for Sec.

Primo sometimes gets on a Mommy power trip too, though he’s more apt to bargain, to incentivize rather than threaten:

“You want this shoe? OK, I will give you the shoe . . . If you play Harry Potter with me. Is that a deal?”

This, too, is surprisingly effective. In fact, I’ve noticed that the children’s imitations of my parenting techniques are more effective than my own implementation. Is that demoralizing or what?

Lord of Bats and Lady of Darkness

Though it is delightful and fulfilling to have the experience of mothering both a son and a daughter, there are some challenges to having a child of each gender. One problem is that they have trouble finding a game they both like to play. Not that my son is an archetypal boy or that my daughter is an archetypal girl – far from it, really – but still their interests are different. She likes to play twisted princess pretend – "EAT THE POISON APPLE MOMMY! EAT IT!!” and he likes to draw figures from Greek myths for hours at a time.

But, at long last, my children have found a game, one single solitary game, that they both enjoy. It is called “the Lord of Bats and the Lady of Darkness and Thunder Game.”

They both put on sunglasses and as many other weird accoutrements as they can find – tablecloths draped around their shoulders, sweatbands on their arms and underwear on top of their clothes. Then they run around shouting about how they are going to wreak havoc on Earth.

As far as I can tell, this game relies heavily on announcing their titles over and over again.

“I am the LORD OF BATS!!”

“And I am the LADY OF DARKNESS AND THUNDER!!!!”

“Let us RULE THE EARTH!”

“Wait, Primo, I have to do peepee! Don’t rule the Earth until I come back, OK?”

“Ok but hurry up.”

When she gets back from the bathroom, they announce their titles again and their master plan for world domination. They’ve never gotten much further than that because it takes so long to get into their outfits, and what with a break for peeing and all, it’s already been five, six minutes by the time they reach this point. And six minutes is an absolute record for playing nicely. After six minutes, tops, someone inevitably says, “That’s MY evil SCEPTER!” and it’s all downhill from there.

But still, its reason to hope. Maybe one day they’ll learn to stand each other’s company long enough that I can load the entire dishwasher or write a whole email. I dare to dream.

Kids shouldn't share imaginary friends

My kids will fight about anything. Now they’re fighting over what their imaginary friend is doing.

A few weeks ago, I was putting Primo to bed and he told me to tell him that the Airman was coming,

“What?”

The Airman is not a character I've ever heard about before -- not from a movie, not from a book, not from any prior narratives emerging from Primo's amazing mind.

“It makes me feel better if you tell me that the Airman is coming,” he informed me, “It makes me feel like there are more people in the room.”

“Ok,” I said, “The Airman is coming.”

Who am I to argue?

So, after hearing us announce the arrival of the Airman every night for a few weeks, Seconda decided she wanted to get in on the action.

“The Airman is coming and he is going to sleep in MY BED!” she shouted.

“NO HE IS NOT!” Primo yelled, “MOMMY!!!! Tell Seconda that the Airman is going to sleep with me!”

“Too late! Too late! He is in my bed now and he says he won’t go with you!” Sec yelled.

“MOOOOMMMY!!!!” Primo wailed.

“Honey,” I said as I walked in, “You know that Airman is not real, right?”

“I know,” Primo said.

“Then he can be doing whatever you want him to,” I said, “And besides, Sec doesn’t even know what he looks like.”

That consoled him.

To Sec I suggested, “You now, since imaginary friends are free, you don’t have to share with your brother. You can make one up for yourself.”

I'm just bracing myself for the arguments that Airman will have with Sec's imaginary friend. Good times.

Sibling Smackdowns

I was never one of these moms who had rosy visions of how much my toddler would love his new baby sister. I hear mothers who are expecting their second baby talk like this – “Oh, Annabelle just LOVES babies and she is so excited about having her own baby brother! – and I think "You, my friend, are in for a terrible surprise." I’ve always had tremendous sympathy for the plight of the older child who has to make room in his life and house and heart for a new sibling because from their perspective, for the beginning at least, its lose-lose. Babies don’t do jack except cry and eat and cry and both of those things take Mama away from First-born and First-born never wants Mama taken away from him. I get it, completely.

But at what point, dare I ask, at what point is First-born supposed to get over the trauma of having a sibling?

Because I am feeling like after 3 years, maybe Primo should get with the program.

He has been on an absolute Sec-hating rampage of late. She drives him totally up the wall. And look, I don’t blame him really. You’ve read of Seconda’s antics. These shenanigans, while frustrating and exhausting, have an inherent charm to grownups. She’s a precocious, adorable firecracker and adults can’t help but find that endearing. But for the big brother, her antics hold no charm whatsoever particularly because they take every ounce of attention away from him. I understand this and I sincerely sympathize. Nonetheless I am tired of asking, can’t we all just get along?

There’s the not-sharing problem in which even if Primo hasn’t played with something in years, he can not suffer Sec to even look at it.

There’s the mean-talking problem in which he teases her and calls her a “baby.” Calling a 3 year-old a baby is like calling a dieting woman a heifer. Too close to home. Sore topic.

Then there’s the ordering around. The ordering around actually works for a lot of sibling teams. Many 3 year-olds love nothing more than following the instructions of their big siblings, whom they look up to and adore.

Not so in this case. Sec won’t give an inch. Sec has her own ideas about everything and she’s not budging. So the ordering around turns into the mean-talking and then Sec, who’s not so adept at controlling herself, lets her fists do the talking, freeing up Primo to unleash his wild side and soon everyone’s appealing to me with “he did this” and “she did that” and “you’re lying” and “you’re a baby” and Mommy yelling, “CANT WE ALL JUST GET ALONG?”

I read Siblings Without Rivalry cover to cover, you know. But I think its time to re-visit.

What are your ways of dealing with the sibling smackdowns? Or better yet, your strategies to prevent them altogether? I hope it doesn’t include living in a house which is larger than 900 square feet because then I’m screwed.

Bedtime noises

Thanks to the incredibly small size of our home, I can hear everything that goes on in my kids’ room at bedtime. It doesn’t matter where I am – the living room, the kitchen or my bedroom -- it all comes through crystal-clear. And here is what I’ve learned:

You don’t want to hear the kids laughing at bedtime. Because laughing always leads to crying.

Crying, however, never leads to laughing

And the absolute worst thing to hear coming out of the bedroom is silence. Silence equals a big damn mess.

Lately when Seconda is silent, it means she is torturing the pets – two amiable goldfish names Goldy and Whitey (look, I didn’t name them that – it was Primo’s bright idea and how could I explain that calling creatures “Whitey" isn’t really done?). Goldy and Whitey reside in a tank with no lid, on a very high dresser next to the kids’ bed and lately Sec has made it a habit of climbing right on up and dropping crap like dirty socks, stray Legos and discarded foot items into the tank. Those poor creatures must shudder when they see Seconda’s big blue eyes approach.

So, the only thing I like to hear coming out of that bedroom is low-level bickering, the kind unlikely to spur the children to action, and babydolls being disciplined.

“Snow White, I told you a million times, you CAN’T put your face in the fishtank! You leave those fishes alone! You are driving me CRAZY!”

May not lead to sleep but it won’t lead to crying either. Perfect.

Babies, the movie

What's cuter than a baby? Four babies! From four different parts of the world, doing more or less the same baby things, albeit in different ways. I'm talking about the new documentary Babies, and you can watch the clip here.

I like the goat just chillaxing at the end, trying to score some bathwater while the getting is good. But what I love is the babies attacking each other in the beginning, because it cracks me up that the cameraman is just sitting back and watching this rumble unfold. Reminds me of a home video my uncle took when I was about 10 and my sister was about 8. We were on the beach and I threw some sand at my sister's head. Big mistake. That child was 50 pounds soaking wet with rocks in her pockets but, man, could she get mean. She grabbed me by my ponytail and commenced to drag me around the beach thusly, while I screamed for help. Meanwhile you hear my uncle behind the camera laughing and going, "Hey, you guys, c'mon. (chuckle chuckle) cut it out."

Be kind, unwind

When you have a baby and you read the Baby Whisperer and Dr. Sears and Weissbluth, you find that all these experts spend a great deal of time talking about the importance of creating a soothing bedtime ritual. This ritual is supposed to help your child transition from the stimulation of daytime to the tranquil peace of sleep. I am neurotic and overachieving and always try to do what experts say, so by four months of age, Primo was being bathed at the same time every night, massaged after bath to promote body-mind wellness, read to in the rocking chair, and placed in his crib awake, while the cool chords of Coltrane’s Ballads played on a little CD player in the corner. Same sequence, same time, same place, every night.

Fat lot of good it did us. The Sandman himself couldn’t get this kid to sleep without a struggle. Since he was a baby, he’s had a tough time settling down, and we have tried everything. Everything.

Including, most recently, allowing him to take David’s old Ipod shuffle to bed with him.. Since nightlights and stuffed animals, and good-dream-stories and bribes and threats didn’t work, we figured we’d try letting him relax to his favorite music.

We found however that it is somewhat difficult for a child to unwind whilst his two year-old sister hurls plastic babydolls at his prone form.

I knew something was up when, instead of the usual defiant but jovial yelling, I heard Primo wail. I ran in to find him hysterical and his sister jumping and down in her crib, beside herself with delight at what a terrible ruckus she’s caused.

“She hiiiiiiit me,” he sobbed, “In the heeeeeeead! With her BABYDOOOOOOOOLLS!”

And there you have it, the distillation of my kids’ relationship. Seconda beats Primo down, despite being half his age and less than half his size.

She’s tough as nails, that baby, and ruthless, too. At the playground yesterday, when these 6 year-old boys were chasing Primo around, he ran up to her and pleaded, “Go get those bad kids.” And she did, kicking them hard with her pink Converse high-tops and squawking, “GO AWAY! PRIMO IS MY BOY!” Whenever there’s a kiddie throw-down, I put my money on my daughter and man, does she deliver. But when she turns on her brother, well, action must be taken.

So I had to confiscate her babydolls and move her into the Pack N Play in our bedroom. I mean, Primo was afraid to fall asleep with her there.

Two minutes later, I heard him sobbing again. Back to the bedroom I went.

“What is it now?” I asked.

“I just keep crying,” he sobbed, “and the tears are going into my ears and making my ipod headphones sliiiip oooout.”

Seriously.

“Then just stop crying,” I offered. I mean, its not rocket science.

So, the next time you’re heading into a major pity-fest, and about to stew in your sorry state, just console yourself with the thought that at least your baby sister didn’t beat you up and give you tears in the ears. It should help.

The F*$@king Fours

So remember my frabjous day last week when Primo slept 12 hours and was the paragon of perfection? Well, I feel it is my responsibility to dissuade you from the notion that the winning streak continued. In fact, that day was just a single, solitary moment of light to keep me warm during what is sure to be a bitter cold winter of the soul as Primo works his way through his current behavioral shit-storm.

Look, I don’t enjoy talking trash about my kids, but at this point I consider it to be a valuable therapeutic exercise that will, perhaps, prevent me from thrashing the little sucker. Because my son is in the fucking fours.

I think it was the midwife at my OB practice who first introduced me to that term, when I went to see her for my six week post-partum visit after having Seconda. We were talking about how Primo was dealing with the new baby and she told us about this equilibrium/ disequilibrium thing, which more or less boils down to this: On even years, kids are awful monsters. Or something like that. Who the hell remembers exactly? I had just had a baby for Crissakes. But I clearly recall her bracing me for trouble, because, as my children are two years apart, they are always hitting the even years at the same time.

So, what I’ve got on my hands is a case of the Terrible Twos and the Fucking Fours. Don’t you wish you were me?

Now that I’ve been through both, I can tell you with assurance that the Fucking Fours are significantly worse than the Terrible Twos/ Those two extra years give kids considerable more strength, stamina and wiles. By four, most children have a nuanced understanding of their parents tragic flaws and how best to exploit them.

So what exactly is my four year-old doing that has driven me to sitting here today, eating immoderate amounts of milk chocolate with whole hazelnuts and smearing his name on the world wide web? Put it to you this way. You know those mean drunks, who get a few too many beers in them and start picking fights? And you know, it doesn’t matter what you do or say, they’ll find something to brawl over? That is my son. The only hope I have of avoiding a scene is to try and stay clear of him.

This morning, instantly upon waking, he announces that we need to perform the play of “There was an Old Woman who Swallowed Count Dracula.”

“Why don’t you make the costumes and plan the play while Mommy makes coffee?” I suggest.

Please be advised this is 6:15 am.

By 6:20 am he has finished what I was hoping would take at least 30 minutes. The kid works fast. He has drawn all of our costume pieces on construction paper and sets about taping these works of art onto everyone’s body. Vampire fangs, bolts for Frankenstein ‘s neck, horns to affix to the goblin’s head.

Seconda is the goblin, naturally, so Primo tapes horns onto her hair and she, being two, rips them right off. This process is repeated five times, with Primo growing more and more enraged and Sec growing more and more delighted by her capacity to cause such feeling in him.

Unsurprisingly, there is an “incident” which leaves the baby crying. When I pick her up I am accused of ONLY CARING ABOUT SECONDA!!!!!!!!!

We smooth things over and rehearse the play. I am – you guessed it -- the Old Lady. As such, I have to sing the following song, while opening my mouth wide to ingest my various family members dressed as Halloween spooks.

There was an Old Lady who swallowed Count Dracula

She used her spatula

To swallow Count Dracula

There was an Old Lady who swallowed Frankenstein

She asked Dr. Frankenstein

Before she swallowed Frankenstein

There was an Old Lady who swallowed a goblin

She had a big problem

When she swallowed that goblin

Perhaps she’ll DIE!!!!!!

A harrowing little ditty is so many ways.

But my little Billy Wilder is not pleased with my performance. I am not singing to the right tune! I am not acting scary enough! I am not falling down to die the correct way!

It is now 7 am. The hour at which I would hit snooze on my alarm clock in my previous life.

“FINE! I am CANCELLING the PLAY!!!!!” he yells.

“I think that is a wise idea,” I agree.

“STOP SAYING THAT!!!” he shouts, throwing himself on the floor, “BAD GIRL! BAD GIRL!”

“Bad girl!” repeats Seconda, who takes it a step further by smacking my leg.

“I’m not the one who’s BAD!” I shout back.

“I’M NOT GOING TO BE YOUR FRIEND ANYMORE!” And with that, the tantrum to end all tantrums begins. I will spare you the gory details. By the time David comes home at 8am, we are all shaky, spent, tear-stained.

This has happened every day for the last month.

The good news is that Spring Break ended today! Callou! Callay! Perhaps with the 3-6 hour break I have from Primo’s dictatorial reign, I will be able to summon the patience to make it through. As the little man himself told me this weekend, “Sometimes you think you can’t do something but you really can, if you just don’t give up. That’s what a challenge is.” One to grow on.