Pants-Free Parenting: There is a fine line between sibling rivalry, alliance

While walking to the car in the rain, my children shared an umbrella. My son, who is 2, clung to the handle while his sister, 4, held his hand. 'Come on brother,” she said. 'Let's stay dry.”

A woman passing by put her hand to her heart. 'They are so sweet,” she said. But before I could reply it had all gone to hell. My son started screaming. My daughter began to cry. Tiny fists flew. I smiled at the woman, tucked my son under my arms and shoved him into the car.

My kids love each other until the exact moment that they don't.

My childhood is filled with many memories that are just now beginning to make sense. I remember getting into a knock down drag out fight with my brother over whose face should be on the currency of the money we were making from green construction paper. I voted George Washington. He wanted Jesus. Fists flew. When it was over, I remember looking up and seeing my mom retreating from around the corner. Had she been watching the whole time? Why hadn't she stopped my brother from being so cruel to me?

Now, I, too, watch my kids from around the corner, trying to stay out of their fights and arguments. Too many times they are both at fault - s he tells him he can't touch anything in the whole house, so he kicks something, she screams, he spits. Meting out justice is often so tricky that I give them a choice - we can give hugs and remember we love each other or we can all go to time out. You'd be surprised at how few times the first option is chosen.

A few days ago, as they were playing 'makeover” in my daughter's room - a game that involves my daughter brushing her brother's hair and adorning him with bows and fake eyeshadow - I heard the traditional weeping and gnashing of teeth that follows any prolonged interaction. I came upstairs to meet my daughter who was weeping, 'Everything is ruined! My whole life is ruined because of my brother.”

I hid my smile. I have three brothers, I identify with the feelings. And held her for a little bit. Then, I looked up, sitting on the top step was a grinning little toddler, his hands full of princess dolls.

'Buddy,” I said, 'are we being nice?”

'I wreck all her stuffs!” He yelled gleefully. 'I wreck it all!”

I had to bite the inside of my cheeks in order not to laugh. But it was too late, my daughter saw me smile. 'It's not funny!” She yelled. Then, my son turned on me. 'Not funny, mom!”

'Oh guys, I'm sorry,” I started to tell them how much they reminded me of my brothers and sisters and I wasn't laughing at them, I was just remembering so many fights and arguments and green beans hidden under pillows as revenge. But it was too late. My daughter was done crying. She walked up the steps and grabbed her brother's hand. 'Come on buddy, let's just go play because mom is being weird.”

I didn't even want to argue with them. One day, they will be faced with the chore of taking care of me, changing my diapers, making decisions about my care, and I hope that whenever that happens they can be a united front, hand in hand, against mom and all her manifold weirdness.

' Lyz Lenz is a writer, mother of two and hater of pants. Email her at eclenz@gmail.com or find her writing at LyzLenz.com.