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Peace on Earth, and even in the home
Whether it was the recent Middle East Peace Conference in Annapolis, or because this is the Season of Peace, I have been thinking a little about peace. My thinking is not always done under peaceful circumstances, but it almost always is in little bits.
Last summer, my boys (then ages 11 and 8) were not speaking to each other, and that was great, because that’s exactly the way I had wanted it. At the time, it seemed the only way to ensure domestic tranquility. Whenever temperatures would flare, so would their tempers. I finally snapped on a day when they were having their umpteenth argument:
“Shut up!”
“No, you shut up!”
“Why don’t you shut up first?”
“Because you started it.”
“No, you started it.”
“You know you started it, so just shut up!”
My second daughter (then 13) attempted mediation by an alternate strategy: “Will you two just shut up? I am so sick of it.” Sometimes the elder girls, like foreign financiers, pick one warlord to support, and then the factional fighting really begins.
I wish they were at least clever or creative in their spats, but they largely restrict themselves to the preschool four-letter words: (shut up), advance to five letters: (dummy) and finally max out at a lofty six letters: (stupid). While lobbing insults, one son clenched his jaws while the other clenched his fists.
I might have pondered then, “Is it in the nature of males in particular to fight, or is it in the nature of man, in general?” But this was that bewitching hour when dinner needs to be made, the dog is yapping because the doorbell is ringing, the four–year old is missing in action (wasn’t she shouting for you from the bathroom?), and your nap-skipping toddler has turned into a tree-hugger who has just found the last Giant Sequoia on Earth: your left leg. These conditions are not conducive to contemplating mankind’s problems. You have too many of your own (problems, not children).
“THAT’S IT!” I heard myself scream. I often do hear myself scream; I just hope the neighbors don’t. “You two are not allowed to talk to each other, or play with one another, or sleep in the same room for the next 36 hours.”
Their stunned looks and abrupt silence would have been a better response to being drenched with ice water. (No, I have never used that technique, but thank you for the idea, all the same.) One began the requisite pleading… “One last chance, Mom?” while the other began calculating, “So you mean we can’t talk to each other until Saturday morning?” Reality was seeping in to the dueling duo.
No “Band of Brothers,” these two had been a band comprised exclusively of cymbals, furiously crashing against each other all day, enjoying the shock waves of discord and dissonance in their wake. I had broken up their band, and now, each boy was left with a sole cymbal to thrust noiselessly and fecklessly in the air.
For the next hour and a half, they sat silent and reading. “Hey, what page are you on?” one shouted, momentarily forgetting the punishment. (They were reading the same book.) A single maternal eyebrow lifted, and looks of alarm were exchanged, followed by a muttered, “Oops, sorry. I forgot.” Their teenaged sisters consoled them separately, because they too had once had to suffer this treatment.
I wish I could have framed that evening in time. Dinner was held in quieter bliss. (My husband was wise to the cease-blabber, having been informed during his commute home.) I then realized how often I address the two boys as a unit, “Sergio-and-Niles.” This was a good exercise for me, because I had to look at, and speak to, them as individuals.
Later that night, one wanted to play outdoors and asked if the other would also be allowed to play, not WITH him, of course, just independently, in the same area, where they would, on their honor, agree not to communicate even while unsupervised. I know I’m gullible, but I’m not THAT gullible. “No. Go play alone and when you’re done, the other can go.” They did each take turns playing outdoors, but for a markedly brief period.
The next day, in desperation, they attempted to send communication past the Iron Curtain. “Mom, could you tell Niles that I found his…” or “Could you ask Sergio if he’s on page 174 yet?” I have been a stay-at-home mom for over fifteen years. Do I look like I get paid enough to pass notes?
I ended the punishment early when I noticed them exercising little silent courtesies to each other. I am thankful that it only took a day, because in some families, the Silence of the Siblings becomes preferable. Family members then accept this as the status quo, and stop visiting each other or communicating altogether. I hope we won’t have to visit this treatment again until the two youngest need their dose.
Think of all the strife in the world. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could just tell everyone to stop arguing and go read a book, because no one is allowed to play until they learn how to behave?
May your home be blessed with peace.
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