Our pastor at our church said this past weekend while talking about parenting, “I am the youngest of 5 boys. I was born in a fist fight. I had to scrap for cheerios at the breakfast table.”
From sun up to sun down in my house you’d think you were in a UFC ring. There is always a fight of some kind going down. Pillow fights, karate fights, kickboxing fights, punching fights . . . usually ending in tears. You’d really think that after the 100th time of getting knocked down, pushed around and bruised up that they’d decide it’s just not worth it. NOPE, no way! There is just something about boys that compels them to beat on each other mercilessly and practically from birth. When my 2-year old, Eli, was about 1 1/2 he knew how to say, “Oh Yeah. Piece of me?”, all the while gesturing with his hands to come and get him (translation: You want a piece of me?)
As I am typing, there is a full out WAR going on in my bedroom. Tommy and Eli came out crying and the perpetrator this time was Lucas.
Ruben: Lucas! What did you do to them?!
Lucas: I jumped on them, and jumped on them, and jumped on them, . . . .
Ruben: Do you think that’s funny?
In the background, I snicker and contain my laughter with my hand over my mouth.
“I am the youngest of 5 boys. I was born in a fist fight.” Ain’t that the truth!