I am an only child.

Some days I am happy about this. Others, it gets lonely.

This is a story where I’m happy about it.

I do not understand the sibling relationship. It is alien to me. They fight. They love. They fight again. Then they fight some more. They’re sorry. Please don’t tell on me. I said I was sorry. Stop hitting me. Stop biting me. I’m gonna tell. You’re in trouble. I’m so sorry this time. Bark like a dog.

Often times I leave the room wondering if I’ve just witnessed an episode of Divorce Court. I must be Judge Wopner.

So when the girls want to get together and play, it’s monumental and involves lots of moving parts. Who’s going to be the boss? Who narrates the imaginary story? What toys will be played with? Who gets to play The Red Queen because you always get to be The Red Queen and I want to say OFF WITH HER HEAD this time. It’s like bargaining for property in a divorce settlement and no one wants the dog but everyone wants the seaside mansion.

The thing about having such opposite of personalities, in females no less, is the fun usually ends way before it begins. A game may start, a joining of minds on the best way to collectively annoy the parental units – usually involving a toy that makes lots and lots and LOTS of noise – and before long, there are hurt feelings. This is how I can only imagine the U.N. feels when Ahmadinejad comes to New York for a visit of “peace talks”.

There is a piano that’s been in my family generations. It is old, worn, and in need of some restoration love. Add a guitar from BFam’s sister, one she mysteriously inherited after moving out of her college dorm, and a makeshift band has begun in my living room.

Oh yay.

Alas, I can rest easy. This bond? This show of friendly compilation? A ruse. A short-lived one at that. Yet and still, the annoyance is not lost on me. (Please excuse the video quality. I have not confidently learned the inner-workings of my D90′s video function.)

This kid…

I really don’t think I had a hand in making her. Sure, she hitched a ride in my belly for a little while, but she is truly her own person.

I don’t love her any more or less that Mooter, just in a way someone would when they’re in awe and wonderment of someone else. Like a celebrity. She’s my own, private celebrity in that she’s everything I’m not.

She gives me no reason to worry about her. So when we go to the playground, and I’m flustered when the other kids won’t play with her right away…

…and she says, “Iss OK, Mom. I play by mysewf,” well…

It’d be in my best interest to believe her.

But momma’s tired. And momma needs to clean house. And momma needs to pay bills. And momma needs to shop for groceries.

Did I mention how tired momma is?

Over the weekend, we had no practice. No game. AND RAIN! HA! See. Even the universe is tired of softball. Who can argue with the universe? So, momma got to clean. And sleep. Sleep was nice. While I cleaned, I could hear a loud, off-key song being sung from the girls’ room. This is not uncommon. My children often break out in fits of song.

No, their last name isn’t von Trapp. Why do you ask?

As they’re singing, one sounds like Mushmouth, while the other is clear as a bell. A tone deaf bell, but a bell. Mushmouth then asks Tone Deaf Bell for help. “Sing the song again. Slowly because I’m messing up the words. OK, stop playing around. I’m serious. Will you just sing the song already?” Tone Deaf Bell finally relents long enough for Oh-So-Tired Momma to eavesdrop, grab her camera, stand her in the family room, and demand she do it again. For future blackmail documentation purposes.

What is this song, you ask?

Excuse my focus, or lack thereof. It’s hard to hone in on a nervous four-year-old.

Also? As I learned later? The Pledge of Allegiance? Yeah. HAS to be said in conjunction with the song. HAS to be. ‘Tis unpatriotic if it’s not… or something.

Oh, and the flag t-shirt was purely coincidental. I swear.

This could be any Monday morning in my house. Lately, it’s been every morning in my house.

We’re all in need of a little jolt.

Take Booger, for instance. Her jolt is her SpongeBob blanket. This thing has seen her through good and bad times. Knee scrapes. Busted lips. Wet beds.

Oh, how many times we’ve had to wash SpongeBob because of the wet beds.

So many mornings, this week and last, I’ve needed my own SpongeBob blanket.

But Booger doesn’t like to share. She’s a punk like that.

“PUUT DAH CUBBERS BAKK OBER MIY HEYUD, MOM!”

Fine. Be that way.

Punk.

This is not one of those times.