“BUTT! STUPID! SHUT UP! CRAP!”

These were the words I heard floating down the stairs one evening last week. My husband, I noticed earlier, had taken our three sons into our bedroom and closed the door. And so it was with more than a little surprise I heard these words (all of them normally off-limits) being shouted. Nervously, and, perhaps, a little gleefully.

The genetic pathways in my family seem to follow mostly straight lines. Corrie has my eyes and tendency to talk without ceasing. Adam has Hubs' cowlicks and his math skills. Stephen has my facial structure and my lack of math skills. Joseph has Hubs' height.

My three-year-old daughter has a head cold. And if you have ever parented a three year old, you know this is serious business. When their little noses are too stopped up to breathe, they’re simply too young to understand the situation. And they just look at you with puffy eyes that say, “Why, WHY has my nose completely stopped working?” They are so distressed that they begin to cry, which of course makes the stuffy nose worse. It is at this point you realize you are in for a very long night.

One of my dearest hopes for my kids is that they grow up to be best friends. It’s my favorite mental picture, the idea of them gathered together long after I’m gone, laughing and looking out for each other. But right now? Today? In this world of shared rooms and shared clothes and shared toys and shared parents? There are days when the moments of peaceful siblinghood feel very far away.

I know, of course, that sibling rivalry is a normal phenomenon. Having more than one not-yet-fully-mature little human living in close quarters with other not-yet-fully-mature little humans will, understandably, breed some tension. I don’t think testy sibling relationships are necessarily an indicator of troubled relationships with siblings in adulthood.

I am not a meticulous housekeeper, by any stretch of the imagination. When it comes to cleaning and cooking and other domestic pursuits, good enough is…well, good enough. It’s a busy life we’re living, and I have better things to do than worry over whether the window cleaner left streaks on the back door. (Do you like how I just made it sound like I’ve been cleaning my windows? Honesty alert: it was the only example I could think of. I haven’t cleaned my back-door window in ages. See? Not meticulous.)

But there is one area where I’m picky: laundry.