Fight Club

If you are out driving and pass a silver Mazda Tribute inappropriately parked on the side of the road containing two squabbling kids and a mum sitting in the gutter with her chin in her hands, stop and say hi to me.

Because this is my new technique when dealing with the Woogette’s daily car fight on the way to school.

Fight Club has hit a frenzy recently. Years ago when I had a newborn and a two year old (what was I thinking, clearly I wasn’t) it was fairly one sided. We had to keep our eye on the bigger Woogette, but generally, amongst the extreme chaos that came with such a situation, fighting did not exist. Except for when Mr Woog would “help me” by changing a nappy. And then expect a song and fricking dance of thanks. Instead he usually copped an earful. Thanks? MY ASS.

But now physical fighting has reared it’s head.

Harry is a stocky sturdy lad and is very strong but not very quick. Jack has the will and drive of a crazy person and although lithe, can cling on with those teeth like it is nobodies business. He is also the first to dissolve into tears. And the one who insists in an ice pack.

Getting into the car is a trigger. And god forbid if they have to have a bath together. Forget about it. Who gets tucked in first at night also features. Who I love more? Why does Harry get everything? It’s my turn! Harry! Jack! Mum! Stop it Jack! Harry is being rude! You are not being the best you can be! (a new one since Jack has started Kindergarten and now quotes everything his teacher says)

Silence. Scuffle. Thwack. Cry.

I recall fighting with my sisters and brother. And vividly remember one lively afternoon when my mum arrived home to find Mrs Ryan and myself holed up in the bathroom while my brother stood on the other side of the door with a cricket bat.

I remember later on, taking road trips with the 4 of us in the backseat. This was clearly a time before 7 seaters were invented and there was no portable dvd players or ipods. And you did not get sent to jail if two kids shared a seat belt. Mum was heavily pregnant with Painefull. And we would take trips to fascinating places like Canberra. And fight the entire 4 hour drive.

No one wanted to sit next to our brother who got car sick like a bitch and had warts.

We would spend the drive saying things like “Mum! He is looking at me!” and the old favourite “She is touching me!” where I would hold my hand an inch from my sister’s face and say “No I am not.” I could do that for an hour. But the parentals would remain calm and just turn up the cassette of Neil Diamonds Hot August Night. We would stop at Goulburn on the way down and eat at the Paragon Cafe, and establishment that served food wherein every dish came complete with a sprig of parsley and and orange twist. And almost everything on the menu would contain pineapple in some shape or form.

We were then forced to run around the park for a bit in what I now recognise to be an effort to bugger us all out and shut us up for the remainder of the trip. Then back into the car.

“She’s touching me.”

Fight Club in WoogsWorld is also constant. And draining and I am done with being referee.