as published at www.ocregister.com on April 25, 2012
With four kids and three kids' bedrooms, someone had to share. As testosterone tends to whine, begrudge, and rage a little less than estrogen, a few years ago, our two sons became roommates.
But their breezy blue walls, tiki-themed bedding, and bamboo-trimmed furniture failed to lull them into pacific coast pacifists. Rather, a walk past the boys' room usually exposed a tropical storm.
"He's so messy, he takes all my things, he never stops talking!" fussed our oldest.
"He doesn't help me clean up my stuff, he won't let me play with his toys, he makes me be quiet!" the hurricane swelled, with the counter-argument of his three years younger brother.
So we became referees - each morning moderating a quick pick-up, each night projecting a menacing "Boooyys!" up the stairs as our younger's nightly superfluous ramblings drove his older brother nuts.
They shared that room as their birthdays advanced them from ages three and six to six and nine. And every night would culminate in a bellicose "Why can't we have our own rooms!?" as the younger chattered and messed, and the older begged for some peace and quiet.
Then one night, the squabbling stopped...
To read the rest, click here: http://www.ocregister.com/articles/night-350856-boys-one.html
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