My son and daughter

Have drawn their lines in the sand,

Circling one another

Like squabbling butchers,

Looking for soft spots

To plunge

Their chopping knives.

Tattle tailing, blaming, and ratting out

Are the font types for the rules of engagement.

A quick slap under the table

By an unseen hand.

Hugging,

Becomes a battle

With arms of mass affection

Boa constricting me,

As they try to out emote each other.

When Olivia spies Sam's American friend Ian,

Over for the summer,

To avoid confusing his name

With Sam's other friend Riaan,

She rehearses her one-upmanship

All afternoon.

I want to scream

"In the future,

You'll need each other more than ever!"

At them.

Then,

I think back

To other lines drawn

Between four brothers.

Sigh.

Resigning myself

To playing

An adjudicator who,

On Occasions,

For balance

Punishes them both.