Kickin it Up

The air in my house is hot with the smell of testosterone. Full of energy packed pre-adolescent males, engaged in such manly activities as skateboarding, dirtbiking, and physical challenges of any kind, it reeks in here. As much as I would like to be able to hide out in the sanitary and safety of my own room and let chaos rein, I play the responsible parent and monitor the events to maintain authority. One step closer to my total world dominance achievement. Periodically I remind my marauding juveniles of my presents by officiating a race from the sidelines, judge a grind, and administer band-aids and kool-aid as needed. Extreme summertime play. No rules, no curfews, no worries. All is good and happy at the monkey ranch.

Dinner time approaches and most boys dispense to the direction of their own homes. The Jakes remain. The Jakes are brothers nine months apart in age. Almost indistinguishable in appearance, and both their fist names begin with the letter J. I call them The Jakes as never to mix the two up. I think their mom pierced the older Jakes ear so she could tell the difference, they look that much alike.

My two boys bike the Jakes home to make sure they can come back and stay until dark. They are gone all of twenty minutes. In through my kitchen door tumble in the group of tow heads, my youngest last in, which is unusual as K2 takes life a run and never brings up the rear unless it is to chores. Their choirs of excited loud voices tell me K2 has had an accident. Figures- all day here living on the edge here and two seconds out of my sight... K2 pulls off his shoes and begins to cry, no bawl. Four different explanations of how he hurt his foot on The Jakes trampoline. My best understanding is K2 got hurt when he was pushed off by his brother. I take K2 to emergency room, were while being cast for the majority of the upcoming summer, I find out he had broken it while kicking his older brother.

It is not the first time and I'm sure it won't be the last he kicks his brother. He does after all have my temper. I am not mad nor surprised. I even understand why he had a hard time telling me exactly how he had broken his foot. No one would want to confess to that. What fluffs my hair is all the money I spent on tae kwan do lessons. The hours practicing our kicks in class so we would know how to do it right. Just a bad habit to kick.