The TERROR of the Two-Boy House

Yes. It's like this. 24/7/365. Twice on Sundays.

Whenever Da-da sees bloodshot-eyed, baggy-eyed, bleary eyed parents (who must live next to power plants with all those eyes), Da-da ventures, "Two boys?" To which they nod and lay upon Da-da a funereal regard that tips the ontological/parenting scales at 900 lbs. Commiserating was never so important. These folks typically have two boys, born anywhere from 2 to 23 months apart. Besides those families with special kids (that's the toughest, this side of illness) and quintuplets, two-boy families are the most difficult of all nominal parenting incarnations. Living in a two-boy house is like living a non-stop running, yelling, biting, scratching, touching, screaming, wrestling, eating, bus-station ninja death match -- on a treadmill -- but without all the sleeping and internal reflection.

Sure, some families have more boys, but this seems to work better, as the older boys police (er, put the pain on) the younger miscreants and the screaming pressure is ostensibly lessened. All-girl families... well, this is just nirvana... until they start dating at 11, then boom for Vegas at 14. Best to be a U. S. Marshall, then. But there's just something intolerably intolerable and redundantly LOUD about a two-boy house. It's the main reason why Da-da writes this incomprehensible blog. If he had nine girls, he'd be lounging in the sun and eating bon bons while discussing Proust's influence on... well, on somebody. And mixed boy-girl families are, of course, a suburban paradise. Of course. Would you stop touching Da-da? SHE KEEPS TOUCHING ME.

Older boys help the younger boys. See?

Now, Da-da's neighborhood alone features nine such two-boy families -- and his town seems to have something like a thousand -- all of the kids born too close together. More than a few times, Da-da's seen such parents leave their houses around nine at night, after the screaming has died down; they walk to the center of their darkened streets and apparently await UFOs to zap them into nothingness (or perhaps somethingness), or anticipate some texting teen driver to run them down and hurry them on their way to Myrna's Discount Funeral Parlor and House-O-Donut Love. (Why they embalm bodies AND sell donuts tells you how good the donuts are.) Or maybe they go out in the street because they're numb. 

Those of us who survive the 24/7 onslaught are forced to laugh. To cry. To be on the edge of our seats. Then we die. To die, to sleep... perchance to sleep someplace better. Five stars would be nice. ALONE. On the Moors. Wandering. Looking for Mrs. Rochester. (No, not MISTER Rochester. Don't make it weird.) Gotta find someone to take up the slack at the Two-Boy House.

Well, technically you wander the Moors AFTER you're done screaming. It's a process.