There are times, in moments of deplorable weakness, I find myself wishing to be the parent of an "only child."
There are moments when the underlying hum of ordinary sibling discontent seems deafeningly uncommon.
"She's not moving!"
"I don't want him in my room!"
"She won't let me play with her!"
"He won't give it back!"
"She won't give it back!"
"He won't leave me alone!"
"She HATES ME!"
"I HATE HIM!"
There never seems to be a period I find pleasure in being the referee.
And yet, it is usually during those times, and often when I've thrown up my hands and stalked away in total abdication of my parental responsibilities, that they work out their differences in the most favorable of ways.
They might pull toys out of the bins and disorganize them by size ... or color ... or material of construction.
Or scatter crayons through three rooms, leaving a paper trail of clues in the form of quickly scrawled drawings.
They might build a cave out of couch cushions and take turns being the bear.
And the next time I hear my name, it will sound of joyful noise. And when I look to see what they want, one of them will look up at me in surprise and tell me I wasn't the "MOM" in the game they were playing.