A Spawnling-decorated Christmas tree

It's here.

As the Gremlins Three play some insane fighting game in the other room, screaming things at each other like "Thunderbolt!" and "Shadow!" (which is seriously confusing our cocker spaniel who goes by the same name), a thought has hit me:

As of 90 minutes ago, all my little horned ones are off for two weeks.

Two weeks.

Someone hit me with a snow shovel really, really hard. With any luck, I'll lapse into a coma for the entire duration of the season's cruelest joke: Christmas holidays.

If you're giving me that judging mother look, I suggestion you stop wasting your time. I'm all too familiar with it from playgroup, circa 1999 - I've built up immunities. As you bore your eyes into the screen and hope I'll start to feel guilty for having said I'm not exactly looking forward to two weeks at home with my kids, I'm trying to figure you out, too. If I could guess, I'd say you probably fall into one of the following categories:

A) You have no children and think everyone who has them should appreciate every single second of every single day with them (is there a discount on tickets to Never-Neverland if I get a group rate?)

2) You have one child. One perfect little child who has no one to take toys from and spends her days quietly scribbling in a colouring book while you gaze upon the perfection you created. I've been there. It was nice in some ways.

Third) You have two children and your second is a baby. Like me once upon a time, you think this stage of adoration and idolization between older and younger siblings will last forever. But you are wrong. Very, very wrong. This too shall pass, and it will be mourned greatly by you and those who have the displeasure of hearing the bloodcurdling screams coming out your walls. Coming to terms with the fact that your children will tear at each other with their adorable little nails and teeth is a harsh reality, and I look forward to laughing at you as others once laughed at me.

Eleventeen) You are a grandma and you've completely forgotten how dreadful the snowed-in holidays can be. That's okay; like birthing pains, this is Mother Nature's special gift to women who've survived beyond menopause. I forgive you, and I look forward to forgetting this part, too.

Anyway, you can tsk-tsk and shake your head at me all you want, but this ain't my first rodeo. I'm a veteran stay-at-home-mom now. I have fourteen years of holidays under my belt, and the last eight have involved more than one child trying to occupy a space at the same time.  From the moment Gutsy could toddle we've been dealing with conflict. I have absolutely no doubt that the impending vacation will feel like anything but. Case in point: In the five minutes it took me to write the last paragraph or two, Intrepid accidentally whacked Gutsy's loose tooth, which resulted in a lot of loud accusations being flung around the living room like poo in a septic tank full of monkeys.

If there's one thing I know for sure, it's that my kids have conflicting personalities. And the older I get, the more I realize that it's not the end of the world.

Sort of.

I've tried different techniques over the years to try and get the boys to play nice. I scoured the internet and shelves full of parenting books, and tried all the "proven" techniques. Let's take a trip through my list of failures:

I used to run in at the first sign of a fight, get everyone's version of what happened, and try to help them resolve the problem. FAIL. Why? Because I kept having to stop what I was doing every 2.4 minutes just to break up an argument that would start up again the minute I left the room. I have a life, you know.

I tried to run in as soon I heard an impending argument, so that I could calm everyone down before the decibel level climbed to the point of making my ears bleed. FAIL. Why? Because going in before it happens means I have to listen to the slightest increase in tone and be prepared to sprint across the house like a chubby gazelle every time it sounds like there could be a fight. There is no coffee pot large enough to dole out the energy needed to do that. Exhausting.

(Just got back from a writing break. And by "break" I mean sprinting into the living room like the chubby gazelle I am because Spawnling was in a rage after "losing a battle" to Intrepid, and started yanking ornaments off the Christmas tree. But I digress...)

I've tried ignoring the fights. I've sat in the kitchen, quietly sipping my tea while scream bombs explode in the war zone behind me. FAIL. They expect me to be their UN ambassador and streamline the peace process, and will insist - loudly - until I do so. Funny, because I feel a lot more like a refugee who needs to duck under the table for safety. If I don't help them resolve their conflict, they load up on ammunition and race back into the fray, ready for more blood. If anyone's winning the war, it sure as hell isn't me.

I've tried completely tuning out the fight by putting my headphones on - the ones that block out all sound if I just turn the Black Eyed Peas up loud enough. EPIC FAIL. It turns into a silent horror movie: Kids running to me, faces red, tears falling to the floor, pointing at each other, mouthing words I can't make out, toys and fists having already been thrown beyond my peripheral vision. Then I need to check for collateral damage: flatscreen TV, grandma's china, bewildered pets. It's only a matter of time before there's a downed bookshelf. One mustn't let it escalate to that point. Hearing is my friend.

So, what do I do? I have no freaking clue. There is no perfect way to resolve constant fights - especially in frigid temperatures when it's harder to shoo them outside for half the day. I've learned keeping as close to regular bedtimes as possible can help, along with crafts and outings and family movies to keep everyone busy. Happy hands aren't fighting hands: let that be your motto.  I keep the junk food as last resort bribery, and the horse tranquilizer gun strapped to my back--

-- forget I said that last thing.

In short, acceptance and humour help the hubby and I breathe our way through the chaos. Like he said to me earlier "I look forward to Christmas vacation and I dread Christmas vacation. Does that make sense?"

More than you know, darling. More than you know.