I used to say the only mother I could relate to was on Animal Planet. My litter, like theirs, would tussle, prod, and generally aggravate one another until an indecipherable mass formed. It seemed as innate in them as it was in the wild. I tried everything to eradicate that instinct but failed. I suppose it’s natural when three or more come from one crammed womb. I finally just gave up and pushed furniture back or yelled at them to take it outside (mostly).
My boys seemed to always end up in a pile. This pile could be inside our house, in the yard, on a patch of grass at church (I hated it when they were all dressed up), on a playground, or even in the water. They looked like a three-headed triclops with numerous, flailing appendages. I’d ignore it (outside the water) as long as the noises emitted from said “pile” didn’t indicate pain. That sound was my cue to intervene with the water hose, pitcher of water or any other mechanism possible.
Dumbfounded at how to handle the situation as they grew in size and strength, I finally asked one of the boys what he would do if he were a parent and had three sons constantly wrestling and bothering each other. Being approximately 11 years old, he replied, “What do I look like…a social worker?” I asked him how he knew what a social worker was. Dead serious, he said, “I saw it on Sponge Bob.”
Fourundertwo 