A few weeks ago, we sprung ahead.  The yearly ritual that enables our days to stretch longer.  I’ve always loved the additional hour of daylight.  The late afternoon sun, still shining but starting to set.  It’s breezy yet warm.  Me, alone in my quiet kitchen, windows open. Listening to the faint play of happy children in the cul-de-sac.  

Abruptly, the serene scene is shattered.  I hear screaming. Crying. Maybe even a mild cuss word.  I glance out the window.  But I really don’t need to.  I already know who it is.  Without even looking.  You see, on any given afternoon, there can be eight kids in my cul-de-sac.  And, if there is a fight, I would bet not only the house and the car, but also Big Guy’s and Little Guy’s college fund, that it is between my boys.  

Yes, these days, there’s more daylight.  More fresh air.  More outside playing. More time to fight.

Ugh.  I thought today could be the day.  The day they break the 21 minute mark.  You know, 21 minutes without a fist thrown, an eye roll, an “idiot” or “stupid” uttered.   Today, I had been an optimist.

With Little Guy and Big Guy, there’s a thin line between love and hate. Blurred constantly by these two little beings that can have knock down, drag out, blood drawing fights and then in the next minute want to build a clubhouse together.  It’s an orchestrated dance and they take turns leading.   

As the typical second child, Little Guy has the “annoy and badger,” and the “secretly taunt, walk by and subtly throw an underhanded punch without getting caught” down to a science.  Some of his best work include jabbing Big Guy with a hockey stick as he celebrates a goal, telling Big Guy he is weird under his breath while he stands behind him, and, let’s not forget, the sneaky, sitting stance, where although Little Guy is still technically on his side of the couch, his feet periodically wander over to Big Guy’s side and gently scrape him.  He’s just reminding Big Guy he is a force to be reckoned with.

Big Guy, in true first child fashion, is the rule follower, the organizer, and the vocal one who wants to put Little Guy in his place. His repertoire is similar to Little Guy’s with a little less sneaky.  Big Guy prefers a loud, snide remark, complete with the condescending tone (GET OFF ME, IDIOT!).  Or perhaps a derogatory comment in front of the cul-de-sac kids to crush his confidence (You’re such a little baby. You’re so dumb).  And his all time, greatest performance as the crazed, possessed, mad boy, complete with deranged look and fist pumping as he gears up to chase, catch and ultimately crush his brother.  When Big Guy does this, there’s no turning back.  Little Guy needs to either run or prepare for battle.

So although I shouldn’t be so surprised, I was hopeful that today would be different.  We’d make it past 21.  I look at my offspring, chests pounding and hair sweaty, staring down each other with all the hate and detest they can muster up.  Both crying and glaring at the same time.  They glance at me, waiting for me to do something.  They want me to interfere.  I shake my head.  Truth is I’m not sure what to do.  

They want me to punish the one I saw do the most damage. Just pick one.  Pleading, wet eyes glare at me. Pouty lips shake. Just pick one already, they telepathically communicate to me.  But I’ve learned that doesn’t work.  While the one who got away with it secretly glows with the knowledge that he had won the battle, the other, punished child holds resentment, which will fester until the next showdown.  

The boys have offered up some solutions of their own.  After school, I could physically divide the cul-de-sac. Using chalk and wood.  Or I could put one of them up for sale.  Or best of all, we could have another baby to take the focus off of them.  

Really Big Guy and I make a pact.  No more refereeing.  From now on, it’s all in the same boat. And we add a touch of creative genius.  No more play dates. No more cul-de-sac games. Little Guy and Big Guy need to figure out how to play with each other.  

Days pass. No one is happy.  I am convinced the boys will fight forever.  Grow up and be estranged.  No one will come home for Christmas.  Maybe we should have another baby.  I have become a pessimist.

But then, something unexpected.  Unusual. Much like the other long, late afternoons.  I stand in my kitchen. Gaze out the open window. Watching. Listening.  I hold my breath and wait for the fallout.  You see, it’s been 19 minutes.  Just the two of them.  I spy them rolling around on the grass, and I nearly charge.  They see me and say, “Mom, we’re hugging!”.  Before I blink, it’s 43 minutes. I wait for this to collapse. But it doesn’t.  Really Big Guy gets home.  The boys run in.  Happy.  Laughing.  It has been 74 minutes.  

I’m in shock.  So happy and so proud. I am bursting.  But can’t say anything. I don’t want to ruin the moment.  No praise, no nothing. I just watch the love fest that holds a promise of the future.  Then I stop myself.

Maybe I don’t have to be either a pessimist or an optimist.  Maybe I can just be a realist.  This means nothing more than baby steps.  Kids always start with baby steps. But then they run. And never look back.  

So I will be a realist and know while the last punch has not been thrown, I do see a tiny bit of light at the end of a dark tunnel. And that is enough.

Illyse appears every Thursday on TriangleMom2Mom.