Earning my stripes in diplomacy

I always thought that if I didn't hit my children they wouldn't hit each other. I was wrong. I guess physicality is primal, and I certainly see in my boys that teaching them to use their words or to stop and think before body slamming or pounding a brother is one of my biggest challenges as a mother.

They fight over predictable things: Toys. Space. Friends. Sometimes battles erupt over the strangest of things and my husband and I just laugh in exasperation. Really? You're going to fight over who gets to take out the garbage versus the recycling? You're going to brawl over opening the door to the house or the van? Incredible what will be grounds for war.

But the issue of who was first is huge, huge, huge. Who gets to the toilet first. Who gets showered first. Who gets computer time first. Who gets to kiss their baby sister goodnight first. Who gets food first. I must confess that at times I exploit this to my own advantage as in: "Last one to the van is a dirty rotten egg!" Hoo, baby, do they bolt for the van. No cajoling required.

But today's tears, frustrated yowls, and escalating brotherly violence had me balanced in that precarious place somewhere between laughter and tears myself:

Second son: I'm first! I get to open the van!

Third son: Wails and screams unintelligibly. [I'm concerned at the early morning hour and neighbours and try to shush.]

First son: No!! I'm first!! Let go of the door [the blows start].

Second son: [slamming body against first and third sons, desperately trying to wrestle his way to the handle] Stop it! I'm first! It's my tuuuuuuurrrrrn!! Noooooo!!!! You're always first!!!! [To the third son:] Go away! I got here before you did!

Third son: [wails loudly] But I want to be the first one to be second today.

I sigh. I banish everyone to at least 30 centimetres away from the handle. Baby girl and I open the door. She hasn't joined the fracas yet, but is it just a matter of time?