Divide and Conquer

When sibling politics get too much, maybe the only option is consciously uncoupling; plus fringes and tables on your tod.

My youngest son hasn’t slept past 5.15am for a month now. He had a tummy bug and spent three days dozing on the sofa, then the long, warm nights hit, and he realigned himself on a different time zone. I can’t complain about sleep - my kids were both going through the night well before six months and have reliably given us shut eye for the vast majority of their existence. I mention it, because this edition of sleep deprivation is causing a battle between my boys.

Before the mini dervish swans into ours at the break of dawn, before he starts swinging a sword in the bath or filling up empty Guinness cans with fridge water or turning the hoover on and off and on and off, he goes into wake his big brother. Or more accurately, whispers in his ear while staring intently at him until the big boy rouses, fearing for his life. We don’t have a lock on the door, but we’ve tried fruitlessly to barricade him in. Whatever we do, the little one finds a way, like a mouse through a wormhole.

It is one thing having a kid that wakes you up. It’s quite another when your child steals sleep from their sibling. Whenever anyone is thinking of having a second child, I always suggest a moment’s pause. While - of course - I adore both of my bonkers boys and have zero regrets (aside from wishing we had more of them), I do see how they subject each other to borderline mental torture. My lads abuse each other relentlessly, with a blend of love, desperation for acceptance, annoyance and plain old rivalry.

My eldest is, quite understandably, furious with his brother. Exhausted and furious, sweating out his rage in the heat of summer. It’s a suboptimal combination. As he seethes over his Shreddies, the little one begins singing a nursery rhyme with a contemporary twist - intermittent rapping and percussive beat boxing between verses. I catch my big boy’s eye; he looks like he’s going to explode. ‘Ripley, I love your singing, but can you knock it off at the breakfast table while your brother is eating?’ I plead, attempting to avert Vesuvius. The volume increases, the couplets continue apace. I gracefully place the washing basket back on to the kitchen island and take a deep inhale. We all know what’s coming.

I feel like I’ve tried everything at this point. Gentle to the point of serenity, strict as a battleaxe, all the diplomacy of a Brexit negotiator. I’ve told them they should figure it out themselves (‘he hit me in the baaaaaack’), asked my mum to speak to them, begged for mercy. I’ve read the books, pinned the star charts, dangled carrots, brandished (metaphorical) sticks. All to no avail. As of right now, July 2025, my young boys are City vs. United, Noel vs. Liam and apparently there ain’t much I can do about it.

Gearing up for the long six weeks of school break, I’ll admit to being trepidatious. The summer holidays have been the nadir of my rearing years for a mixture of reasons, mostly the disproportionate load on my shoulders as the parent who works from home and business concerns bleeding while my hands are already over full. You might remember me trying to file my VAT from a canoe on the river Dordogne last year, as a memorable low point. And now the boys are at each other’s throats, I’m trembling at the thought of doing all the bucket list adventures we’ve planned together.