The sound of silence.

I locked myself in my bedroom today. It was the best thing I've done all week. The Doobies were fighting. And, the subject matter of their angst sucked. Madan wouldn't let Kaila watch him play a videogame on TV. For real? Is this why I gave up a flourishing career? To stay home and mediate fisticuffs over whether or not a 4-year-old should be entitled to watch a 6-year-old bowl on the telly? Holy bejesus. Can I get a do-over?

So, as voices escalated and tears flowed, I did what any responsible mother would do. I walked away. No. I ran. They're older now and steady on their feet. They can catch me if I walk. So, I sprinted. Screw the IT band, I thought, as I doubled up the stairs leaving the Doobies in my dust, slamming the door behind me and locking it tight like a bitchy teenage girl.

For five minutes I heard some heated argumenting. I heard some whimpering. I didn't hear any glass breaking or roadhouse-like brawling. And, judging by the unflickering lights on the alarm system, neither Doobie had left the house to catch a bus with all their Bakugans or Littlest Pet Shop Toys.

Life was good.

I started wondering. How many times did I waste my precious time breaking up fights, placating the kids when they simply needed to be ignored, left to their own devices to figure it out? I always worried that they'd beat the snot out of each other ala Ultimate Fighting match, toddler style.

Unlike the Hatfields and McCoys, kids can't fight forever. Eventually they grow weary of it or get distracted by something shiny or bond over what a terrible mother they have. Whatever the reason for the truce, no matter, just as long as I eventually hear the sound of silence.