There’s some chatter about whether or not the sport of wrestling will be returned to the Summer Olympic lineup. I am not up to speed on this. Because I’m too busy monitoring the wrestling match going on in my own living room.
My boys – my sweet, angel-faced, smiling boys – are violent little buggers. Why didn’t anyone warn me?
When I lie on the playroom floor out of sheer exhaustion, it’s apparently an invitation to play wrestle, because I get body-slammed. I kid you not: They use my body to prop themselves up to stand, one on each side of me. With a maniacal grin on their faces, they raise their arms above their head, and boom, they descend, throwing their entire body weight into my abdomen, chest, or face, laughing hysterically.
They react much the same when they decide that it’s fun to throw their sippy cups at my head. Or bludgeon me with a toy hammer. Or yank the hair out of my head. They think it’s funny. I guess they don’t know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of such ministrations.
They aren’t quite as violent with each other, but they aren’t exactly nice either. I am the referee, all day long. Whichever toy one has, that’s what the other one wants. Even if, as chicachicababies points out, there’s an identical copy of that same toy lying nearby, available for the taking. I buy two of everything for this reason. Am I over-consuming? Yes. Does it help avoid squabbles? Yes. Guess which one is more important to me, at the moment.
I’m hoping they’ll learn to share…? Please tell me they’ll learn to share. I don’t want to have to buy two of whatever the equivalent of an Xbox is in 2023.
Physically, they treat each other with the same consideration you might afford a stuffed monkey. Say one of the boys is in the path of the other, sitting with his back to his brother, playing with a toy. The boy who is on the move will grab his brother by the back of his shirt, pull him down backwards to the floor, and crawl over top of him to get where he’s going. It’s horrible to watch. And my cries of, “Don’t! That’s your brother! You love him!” go mostly unheeded.
The empathy thing, that’s what’s has me worried. The crazed laughter upon inflicting physical pain on eachother or me. Do I have two narcissistic sociopaths on my hands?
So I turned to (where else) – the Internet. And lo and behold, babies are not supposed to have developed consistent empathy by 13 months. So, phew. This is a relief. But how do I get them to stop hitting, pushing, stealing toys, etc?
Apparently, according to the Internet, the solution is all in how I react. At this age they just like the reaction they get from ripping the glasses off my face and slamming them repeatedly into the coffee table. So I’m just supposed to “react neutrally.” Oh, okay. “React neutrally” to 50 pounds of little boy landing on my sternum. “React neutrally” when they’re poking each other’s eyes out with spoons.
Easier said than done, I’m thinking, but what do I know? I’m not an Internet Parenting Expert. I’m just the de facto wrestling mat for two
possible sociopaths adorable toddlers.