Alright, I’m just going to dive right in here and get this out in the open; kid fight leagues should totally be a thing. I mean they basically already exist in every two+ child home across the country, all we would need is a live cable feed and some outrageous nicknames. *BoyScout of ‘Murica vs. Struck out in Tee-ball, coming to you live from the most remote trailer park home in all of Florida*. Seriously, the WWE would be bankrupt in a matter of days.
Anyone that grew up with a sibling would completely agree with me on this one. Kids are ruthless when it comes to brawling, and siblings are even worse, they’re out for blood. Adults at least understand that if they’re punched in the face, it’s going to hurt. A lot. A little kid could be walloped right on the nose, pause, touch it (since everything they ever encounter has to be touched, especially sidewalk gum and restroom trashcans), shrug and resume their role as John Cena impersonators in seconds.
I’d like to say that my sister and I grew up as respectable young women who debated our disagreements with the upmost civility; but alas I would be lying through my teeth. We were just as vicious as the rest of the worlds little brats. Of course none of our arguments ever made any sense at all, because what fun would it be to think rationally? We argued over books, toys, who poked who in the car, who watched too much TV, who got the most attention, etc; all of the typical kid stuff. The only difference between Dev and I’s fighting was that our conniving womanly instincts kicked in at about three years old; so we are both violent AND devious, as all women eventually become (typically brought on by a boy showcasing their utter stupidity and/or a fellow female spoiling the Grey’s episode you haven’t seen yet)
I was the physical one out of the two of use. I tended to hit, bite, scratch, scream, anything to cause a scene. I was admittedly a drama queen who wore her crown with pride ( I also wore a satin sleeping beauty gown to match until it got caught in my bike gears and ripped in half. Just a strong, independent princess who didn’t need no white horse). My worst crime against my sister occurred at the ripe old age of 3. She had just gone through a corrective surgery on one of her eyes and had to rest for a few days to allow it to fully heal. Since was only 3 and couldn’t exactly care for herself, Mom was catering to her every whim. And I was jealous. I considered myself the one who needed special treatment; after all I was the youngest child by a whopping three minutes. I bided my time until Devin was alone and Mom was too far away to witness the act. Armed with a blonde barbie and a bitch of an attitude, I perched over a bandaged Devin, sleeping, blissfully unaware of the painful road ahead. I raised my weapon, Schubert’s Ave Maria blared in the background, time moved in slow motion and the hard, plastic head of the Barbie descended upon Dev’s damaged eye with as much force as my little body could muster. Which apparently was a hefty amount. Don’t worry though, her eyes are fine now and as payback God blessed me with the worst eyesight of mankind; so I’ll be spending my life savings on contacts until I wither away.
Devin (the smart one) took a more tactical route than I. She used her powers of manipulation and double dog dare to essentially become a puppet master (*cue Gepetto references*). My house is surrounded by all kinds of plant growth and wildlife; it was never too hard to come across something green. In the fall our backyard is overflowing with Holly Berries, the pretty little red berries that people use to decorate during christmas time and desperate males pretend is mistletoe. Anyways, my Mom likes to put some in the house to try and make it look as if she doesn’t have twin daughters that destroyed every thing in their path. One day, and I’ll still never understand how, Devin convinced me to put a berry up my nose. She somehow managed to cause maximum harm without actually doing anything. So I put the berry on my nostril, thinking it would be too big to inhale, and up it went. And down it did not come. No matter how many times I blew my nose, stuck my little chubby finger up there or cried it was not budging. Devin was loving every second of it; I’ve only seen her laugh as hard at one other point in my life (My Mom and I had a three hour fight on the correct way to spell “Only”, turns out it’s not spelled “oly”). We had to wait for Mom to come home and stick a bobby pin up my nose to dislodge it.
I may have been an aggressive, barbie wielding brat but Devin, Devin was the queen of manipulation. She knew mind tricks that were at a fifth grade reading level. Luckily now when we argue it’s usually about clothes or who gets to carry the cat around the house in their backpack (told ya we’d talk about kitties).
*impressive foreign version of goodbye*