A Meditation on Sibling Rivalry

My two oldest boys are acting just like brothers from the Bible.  Bless them.

They are like Cain and Abel  Cain.  You know Cain; he killed his brother, Abel out of jealousy.  But not just any old jealousy.  God asked Cain to sacrifice his best.  God wanted Cain to sincerely show his love.  Cain didn't feel like it so he burned some crap on a rock in sacrifice to God.  Not literal crap, but figurative.  Cain gave less than his best.  He wasn't sincere.  If the sacrifice were words, Cain didn't mean them.  And he was so jealous of Abel, who did mean it, that Cain killed him.

"I'm sorry" is thrown around here like "I love you" is thrown around on prom night.  Oh, yes, I did just go there.  It's tired and insincere and manipulative and is said only to serve a single, selfish purpose.  Saying, "I'm sorry" when you're not is a lie.  The error is compounded.  The anger is compounded.  Nothing good can come of it.  Nothing.

Pretend sorry is not allowed.  Pretend sacrifices are not allowed.  No one is allowed to burn crap on a rock in my house and get away with it.  I don't want any pretend sacrifices or shows of "love" that are just for show.  

So there's that.

Then we have Jacob and Esau.  Brothers, twins no less, who disliked each other only slightly less than Cain hated Abel.  I believe they emerged from the womb locked in mortal combat.  Thankfully, neither committed murder.  But Jacob cheated and lied and schemed his way into taking his brother's inheritance.  Esau wasn't blameless - oh no - Esau sold his inheritance for a bowl of soup.  Things that make you go hmmm.

My boys, they cheat each other.  They trick each other.   They fought over a Lunchable this morning and I have no doubt that one of them would have sold their birthright for it had that offer been on the table.  Two days ago one of them changed the pop tarts in the boxes so that the other boy, who truly hates all pop tart flavors except for Brown Sugar Cinnamon, got a surprise Strawberry.  (Some one at Pop Tart - PLEASE - for the love of all that is good and holy - LABEL the individually wrapped foil packages so this insanity stops!)   This caused things to be thrown across the kitchen, including the offensive Pop Tart.  And the boys were ultimately sold to a band of nomads who just happened to be passing through town.  

I didn't actually do that.  I'm using it as a segue to the next band of Biblical brothers.  Let's call them The Twelve Tribes.

If you're not familiar with the story of Joseph and his coat of many colors, perhaps you've heard of Donny Osmond and the Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat?  It's the same story.  Joseph had horrible brothers who wanted to kill him.  They hated him but they had good reason to, right?  (My boys are nodding in agreement.)  Wrong.  It's never okay to hate someone no matter how unfair life is.  

What's the story, you ask.  In modern parlance, the dad in the story always bought Joseph his favorite Lunchable but made his other sons, The Twelve Tribes, eat goat meat sandwiches.  It was so UNFAIR they just wanted to kill him.  So that's what they decided to do.

Neither of my boys is rewarded the starring role of the virtuous Joseph.  (Who, IRL, is much more sympathetic than Donny Osmond would lead us to believe.)  No, and on some days, they're not even worthy of comparison to Ruben, the brother who didn't want to kill Joseph.  He just wanted to get rid of him... or maybe teach him a lesson.  

Most days my boys are the brothers who happily, gleefully tossed their rival into a dry well to be eaten by wild goats.  (See previous post about goats gone wild.)  And then sold him to a band of nomads so they could purchase an Xbox.

In conclusion, they're both grounded for eternity.

* As a responsible blogger who has some journalistic integrity, I feel it is important to add that once in a while they get along like James and John, the Sons of Thunder, and they work together to bring down someone else who has wronged them. 

  

Gold Star Mom Day

I took my kids to noon mass and Confession.  Gold star mom day.  Only there was a little more to it than that.   I know this is going to read like an exaggeration but I promise that it's not.  All the events described herein really did happen to the degree in which they are described.  

This is how it went down. 

Rolled into noon mass a little late.  No biggie.  Jesus totally understood because I was busy trying to get my short story ready to submit and I lost track of time.  Fine.  We can take care of it in Confession.

Mass was normal.  Kids were good.  

After mass, heading toward the front to get in line for Confession, #2 boy child grabbed the front of his pants and started dancing.  Change in plans.  Bathroom break.   #1 boy got in line for Confession.  Boy #2 and #3 went with me ISO a bathroom.  My DD stayed in the church "to pray."  Rookie move.

Sons were warned not to leave the lobby area after finishing in the bathroom.  Of course, one of them did.  After an extensive search of the church bathroom, he was found wandering and whispering loudly praying with his twin in the church. 

I got into line, which was a sitting line or we never would have made it.  There were at least sixteen people in front of us and only one priest.  TWO HOURS later, it was my turn.  

During this time I had to hiss at one of my kids to remove his hand from his pants, break up several arguments, threaten to take away all screens for the rest of eternity and give a number of soul-chilling glares.  The twins nearly burned the church down - twice, were kindly reprimanded by an older woman (for nearly burning the church down), understood "proper church movement" to mean running in flip flops, repeatedly head-butted my stomach tried to fall asleep on me, "read" the Latin passages on the wall in loud whispers, killed my phone battery, and got into a fight with the newly sin-free #2 son while I was in the confessional.  I almost made #2 get back in line and was sorely tempted to do something that would require me to get back in line as well.  

Thankfully my grace held.  It held by a thread.

By this time I was so hungry that I was ready to eat a hymnal.  My #2 son was clutching his stomach and prophesying his own death from starvation.  My #3 boy was eyeing the candles with devious intent.  And my girl was draining the last bit of battery from my phone.  

I said my penance quickly because I knew God didn't want #2 son to die of hunger, grabbed my purse and turned to leave.  

But wait a minute.  I was missing one.

My growling, broody #1 son, the 13 year old, was still in the front pew.  His head was bowed in prayer?  I looked around.  My other three were literally running for the doors like a pack of rabid wolverines.  

But look.  I wanted to shout and point.  One of my kids was being good.  There was grace.  He's praying.  Did anyone else see that?  One of my kids was good!

He finished praying, stood, genuflected and turned.  Was that happiness radiating from his face?  

"Thanks, Mom."  

That's what he said to me as we caught up to each other.  I realized through my haze of frazzled nerves, nausea and hunger that he hadn't uttered a word of complaint during the entire ordeal.   Not only that, he was thanking me.  During the last two hours #2 brother had poked him, made quiet farting noises and whispered that he smelled stinky butt, kicked him, and did numerous inappropriate things that bored little boys do to engage older brothers.   

Plus my oldest was just as hungry as the rest of us, maybe even more so because he's been growing roughly one inch every three hours.

In spite of all this, my #1 was smiling and thanking me.

One of my kids is good.  Hooray!