Christmas Break.

The first day of my kids’ Christmas break began with: “Don’t touch my stuff!!” followed by “Shut up, Stupid!!” This incident was not isolated and will likely predict my short term future. Two weeks of them spending way too much time together is not good for anyone. The tick I developed during the long summer break has finally gone away and now I can already feel the tremors firing up again. Not good. It is with fear and desperation that I search for distractions. They need stuff to do that will shift their focus in directions far, far away from each other. They are way too familiar with the hot buttons that will drive the other crazy and they will relentlessly push those buttons until a terminal velocity of frustration has been reached, usually by me first, then the wheels fall off and s**t gets crazy. I scream and they scream and some crying is followed by a tense silence. I am not proud of this sad routine, but they cannot, repeat, can not, get along.
Having been a brother and having had a brother, I understand, to a degree. But, man, these kids cannot resist any chance to make the other one yell. I look forward to the six and a half hour separation that the school day provides. This distance is gone for as long the vacation lasts. This is no vacation for me. But I will put my head down and try to find ways to keep them from choking each other. I will play games and catch poorly thrown balls and watch bad TV.
Tonight, I am watching “High School Musical Three-Senior Year”. I don’t want to be watching this. Neither does my son, which is encouraging to me. They should be in bed, but since it’s vacation, they get to stay up later. They only recourse I have towards maintaining my own sanity while watching this is making random comments as the show plays. I ask my son, who is eleven and nearing the hurricane of adolescence, “Do you think she’s hot?” about every girl in the show. He replies, “You’re so weird.” I can tell by the passion of his denial the ones he does think are hot.
I ask my seven year old daughter, “Will you take me to prom?” “Noooo!!” is her response. I follow up with, “Would rather go to prom with me or your brother?” She hesitates, then answers to my shame and dismay, “Aden.” Really, girl. She’d rather go to prom with the 80 pound pain in her rear than her sweet, giving, loving dad. I am hurt. (Though, I should note that I have no serious intentions about attending my daughter’s prom with her, but I wouldn’t mind being asked ten years before the actual event.)
This exchange confirms what I had previously only suspected. I am last. The fact that my daughter would choose her creep brother over me should surprise me, but it really doesn’t. For all the bickering, teasing and provocation, they like and need each other. They, on some level deeper than they understand or would ever cop to, love each other. This is good to know and as a dad what I want. However, I wouldn’t mind getting out of the cellar once in a while. But whatever, it’s where I am and so long as everyone else is happy, I am too, I suppose. The good thing about being last is that hope exists for a better day. I have no where to go but UP, baby!! If I can just make it through the next couple of weeks...