It dawned on me this morning - I'm a mother of three KIDS. Not babies anymore. My oldest is coming up on six, my son will be starting kindergarten in the fall (unless we decide he's too young) and my baby is speaking in full sentences and has perfected the art of the manipulative tantrum and also tattling and the death scream of doom.

The death scream of doom was invented by my son, really from birth. He was screaming before his hips were delivered. It's very urgent and primal sounding, with a pinch of bloodcurdling thrown in. It shatters glass. It stops traffic. It blows eardrums. It causes farm animals to become hermaphrodites.

I jest...about the animals. The rest of it is all horrifically true.

This morning, my son and the baby, er, toddler (sob!) went head to head over the View Master.

Son: "Stop grabbing it!"
Baby: "I NEED IT!"
Son: "It's MINE!"
Baby: "Gimme that!" snatching at the hunk of plastic
Son: "No! No! No!" holding it above the baby's reach
Baby: "Uh, Aaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrgh!"
Son: places toy in my hands, plugs ears with fingers "Aaaaaaaiiiiiiiieeeeeeerrrrrrrgh!"

Best I can figure, this was now a choral screaming recital. Mercy. After a minute of sustained screaming, they began to screech in turns.

I stood holding the toy, ears ringing and eye twitching, waiting for their heads to start spinning around. Methinks we'll be working on alternate methods of conflict resolution today.