THE FIGHTERS

It has often been said that if we forget the transgressions of our past, then we are surely doomed to repeat them.  Well, I have remembered my transgressions, and will not repeat them.  But, what if you’re a child and don’t have much of a past?  There’s no possible way to right a wrong due to the fact that a young child has only been on the Earth for a short time.  Another little snippet that has been laid on many expecting new parents is the old, ‘kids don’t come with owners manuals’ remark.  Really?  I briefly thought my wife didn’t push hard enough and the said manual somehow wasn’t ejected from her body.  Seriously though, I understand that folks mean well and they are just  trying to communicate to inexperienced parents that you sometimes just have to operate on the fly.
     A perfect example of this observation comes in the form of sibling rivalry and the ensuing fight.  My brother, sister and I fought regularly.  I can still hear my mother’s exasperated yelling to this day.  “Would you please stop this incessant fighting!?  I swear, you three are going to put me in the nuthouse one day!  Now stop it!”  she would scream, to no avail.  “I hope you have the meanest kids in the history of the world, then you’ll see what you’re putting me through!”  she finished.
     You see, we simply had no way of knowing that what we were doing would one day haunt us like a mind altering, chain rattling ghost.  We grew up, and matured, and hence were unable to correct the shameful deeds of our childhood, which nearly sent poor, old mom to the loony bin. 
     Our two children fight constantly.  It never ends.  They wake up fighting, they eat lunch fighting, they ride in the car fighting and fight a little more before bedtime.  I honestly believe that they dream of fighting.  One of the earliest fights I can remember came when Sidney, our daughter, was but an infant.  “Stop it, you little mean thing!” Ryan, our three-year-old screamed, surely unable to articulate what he really wanted to say.  The four of us were lying on our bed watching a children’s show on television.  My wife and I formed a barrier on the outside edges of the bed, while the children laid under a blanket between us.  The baby kept tugging and pulling at the blanket, which was also covering Ryan.  “Can’t we take her back?” the boy asked, trying to recover his part of the blanket.
     As the years have rolled on, the fighting has gotten more and more intense.  I am convinced that my mother has cursed us in some strange way, and I can imagine a smile creep across her face each time she witnesses my wife or I refereeing the two yelling, screaming kids.
     They fight about the most ridiculous things.  “Daddy, would you spank Ryan?” Sidney squealed, as I stared blankly at her tiny four-year-old face.
     “What’d he do this time?”
     “He called me a juggernaut!  I’m sick of him!”  she stammered, with clenched fists.  I learned early on  that the parent can never, ever laugh during such a heated debate, no matter how comical they can be sometimes.
     “Do you know what a juggernaut is?” I asked, trying my level best not to crack a smile.
     “No! But it doesn’t sound like something I am!”
     “Ryaaaaaan!  Stop calling your sister a juggernaut!” I yelled, at the top of my lungs, to the boy who was now standing at the base of the stairs looking at me.  I decided that an attempt to clarify what a juggernaut was to a four-year-old was futile.
     “Well, tell her to stop calling me a big boose!”  the boy barked, while gritting on the little girl, who had inched ever closer to me.  Big boose? I thought.  What the heck is a big boose?
     “What’s a big boose?” I asked, with my face pinched.
     Ryan piped up and answered before Sidney had the opportunity to open her mouth.  “It’s big MOOSE!  She thinks it’s BOOSE.  She heard it on one of our movies and now she keeps calling me that!  You need to spank her!”
     A logical person would think that even the worst fighters would call a truce in the house of the Lord.  Not so.  For years, my wife and I have had to sit between the children to head of an all out war in the pew during preaching service.  We learned this early in our journey down the road of parenthood.
     One Sunday, the four of us headed upstairs after church school in search of a pew that would accommodate us and all of our bags, papers, bottles, diapers, toys, etc.  We plopped down on a suitable pew, and promptly guided the children to a spot between us.  Immediately, Sidney reached for her bottle, while Ryan began to color on the back of the bulletin with crayons, which he’d apparently swiped from his class downstairs.   We exchanged pleasantries with an elderly couple in front of us, as well as a man who sat directly behind us.  Finally, the pianist began to play, and everyone settled into their seats.  Then, the minister stepped up and began the weekly announcements, while all eyes  stayed glued to him.  Briefly.
     Suddenly, without warning, Ryan spoke.  “Sidney pooped,” he said, in a normal tone, which caused everyone to abandon the preachers announcements, and stare at us.
     “Shhhhh,” Kristi, my wife said, red faced, trying to smile slightly, and trying to look cool.
     “She stinks,” the boy said, still coloring a picture on the bulletin.
     My wife grabbed the diaper bag and the stinking, giggling child and exited the sanctuary.  In a few minutes, they returned and once again settled into their seats.  Ryan had become distracted by a musical number that the choir was belting out, when he noticed that his work of art was slowly being destroyed by the wayward hands of his little sister.
     “Get your hands off my picture!  You ruined it!” he said, slapping her tiny hands away from his crayons and his masterpiece on the bulletin.  “Daddy, will you spank me if I kill her?”  he moaned.  With that, the elderly couple whipped their heads around and stared, with stern faces, at me.  I had come to learn that most folks automatically assume that I look like the sort of father who would indoctrinate their children into the dark world of murder.
     “Pipe down son.  No you can’t kill her!  Now, be quiet and don’t say another word.”
     My wife, who was growing ever more embarrassed, began to dig into the bag that she carried everywhere we went, and produced a pack of snack crackers and a squeezable container of apple juice.
     “Here, give this to Ryan.  Maybe it’ll keep him occupied until we get out of here,” she whispered.
     I poked the little straw through the opening in the pouch and quietly unwrapped the crackers and handed them to the squirming child.  “Daddy, I need to pee!” Ryan said,  as  he squeezed the little, foil pouch and sent a stream of apple juice flying through the air, which rained down on the elderly couple in front of us.  Despite the panic from my wife and me, I fought the laughter welling up inside me as I stared at the tiny yellow river of apple juice running down the old man’s neck.  Surely they didn’t think a four-year-old could pee with such power.
     “Sorry, so sorry,” my wife whispered to the frowning old couple, who had produced handkerchiefs and were wiping their necks, heads and hymnals.  “It was apple juice,” she continued, trying in vain to convince the couple that our boy hadn’t urinated on them.
     “I’ve got a good mind to spank your bottom young man!” I growled, while keeping a watchful eye on the sticky, irritated couple in front of us.
     “Sidney made me do it!  She was reaching for my juice and I was trying to get it away from her when I squeezed it like this and…”  Suddenly another stream shot up and over the pew, hitting the old man squarely in the back, causing a sound similar to rain hitting a plastic bag.  Ryan stared at me with wide eyes and a gaping mouth, unable to believe that he’d just shot the poor old fellow again.  I couldn’t believe what I had just witnessed either.  The old man turned once again and stared  ominously at us for a period of time, before turning halfway back around.  Apparently, Sidney didn’t want to be left out of the growing fiasco, and promptly sent her pacifier hurtling over the pew, which ricocheted off the old lady’s shoulder and into her lap, which prompted her to turn once again and glare at us.  Thankfully, she was kind enough to hand the slobber covered binky back to us, but I noticed that she was extremely careful to avoid much contact with the slimy thing.
    “Let’s get out of here,” I said to Kristi, who was already gathering up the mountainous mess that had been strewn around the pew, and on the floor.
     We finally made it to the car, and Ryan, who was sure that a severe punishment was going to be handed down, had already begun to blame the whole travesty on Sidney.  “Dad, can we get someone to adopt her?  All she does is sit around pooping, and she’s the one who caused me to squirt those old people!”  he whined.   Sidney sat quietly, smiling at Ryan with an ominous face, while sucking on her pacifier.   “See?  She’s laughing at me!  I’m sick of her!”
     Did I mention that they also find a way to fight at athletic events?  Well, they do.  They even fight at events in which one or the other is actually participating in.
     One summer, Ryan was in the midst of his first year of tee-ball, which was quite an undertaking due to the fact that we had to dress him in his uniform almost daily, and Kristi had the daunting task of containing Sidney, who was a very active three-year-old.  She has always been a very active child.  VERY ACTIVE.  I got roped into helping coach the team, so my time was spent on the field, while my wife chased our little curly headed daughter all over God’s green Earth.
     Sidney was always chomping at the bit to get onto the field.  Did I mention that she was very active?  Kristi was forever having to snatch her up, at the last second, before she crossed through an opening in the fence and ran onto the playing field.  Then, there was the day that the child achieved her goal.  I was standing along the third base line, encouraging the kids, when out of the corner of my eye, I noticed my wife motioning to me to come to the fence.  “What’s up?” I said, slightly irritated that I’d been distracted from the game.
     “Somebody had a little accident in their shorts,” came the reply.  “I’m going to take her to the car and put dry clothes on her, so I didn’t want you to wonder where we were if you didn’t see us,”  she continued. To be honest, they could have been gone for the entire game and I wouldn’t have noticed.  I don’t notice much, especially during a baseball game.
     “Oh, ok.  Where is she?”  I asked.
     “Oh snap!”  Kristi exclaimed.  At some point in our brief conversation, our little bundle of energy had stripped ALL of her clothing from her body and raced like miniature Carl Lewis toward the dugout and was on the verge of making a grand entrance onto the field.  Kristi raced to catch her, but she was too late.  The child had made it and was racing toward second base, which is where Ryan was standing, staring, googly eyed and wide mouthed at his little naked sister, who was sprinting across the dirt infield. 
     “Time!!!” the umpire bellowed, while removing his mask and staring in amazement at Sidney, Kristi and I, as all three of us sprinted across the field.  The other players giggled uncontrollably, while parents stood and gawked at the scene unfolding before them.
     She finally reached second base while Ryan was heading toward right field, surely in an attempt to get away from his tiny, streaking sister.  My wife and I finally caught up to Sidney, who was laughing all the way.  Ryan had begun to slowly walk back to his position, as Kristi, with our wayward child in her arms, had retreated to the safety of the dugout.  “Dad, can’t we leave her home next time?  The other kids are laughing at me,” Ryan whined.
     When the game was over and everyone continued to laugh, we finally made our way back to the car and sat quietly for a moment, when Ryan spoke.  “I hate her.”
     “Now son, that’s no way to…”  I attempted to say, as a melee broke out in the rear of the car.
     “You embarrassed me, you little twerp!  Now all the kids are going to make fun of me for the rest of the season!”  the boy barked.  Sidney stuck out her tongue and made a face at her brother, who had tiny veins bulging from his neck.  “Creep.”
     The fighting goes on, and on, and on.  Occasionally I dream of giving their inheritance to a worthy cause, like a study of how often  Gray Squirrels mate, but then I always back away from those plans when they occasionally take a break from the fray and I don’t have to be a referee.  But, without a doubt, I will again over the years, consider surprising them when the reading of my will commences.  I smile when I think of the expression on their faces when they find out that I’ve left all my Earthly belongings to a bunch of squirrels.
     Now, I think I’ll search the internet for that manual.  It’s never too late.