So my husband and I are relaxing on the couch, watching The Guardian, when my kids, who should have been asleep by now, are screaming.

I sit there, hoping it will go away. Magically resolve itself, like the clutter in my garage–if I ignore it, it will go away.

I hear 3 year old screaming, “Moooommmmaaa. Brover’s gooot maaaaaa cappppppe” Translation: “Momma, brother’s got my cape.”

In yet another attempt to avoid moving my behind from it’s rather soft resting place, I holler back, “#1, leave your brother alone!”

I wait a few moments. Something crashes. Wails increase. I think something just fell down the stairs. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t one of my kids. Too much banging.

Untangling myself from my warm, softy, oh so comfy blanket, I stomp up the stairs.

The sight that greets me is a ball of rolling arms and legs entangled to the point they are indistinguishable.

Grabbing one batman collar, and one superman one, I pull them apart. “What’s going on?”

3 yr old, tears streaming down his face, cries, “Brover stoooole my caaape!” (I won’t retranslate here).

I level a “give me the truth” look at 6 yr old.

He refuses to meet my gaze. “I wasn’t stealing it. I was taking it from so he wouldn’t play with it anymore and go to sleep.” All of this was delivered in one breath.

I take a deep breath and jerk the cape from 6 yr old’s clutchs. “Leave your brother alone, or I’m shutting your door.” This is of course, the ultimate punishment because it blocks the hall light (they take apart nightlights to “see how they work”–we gave up years ago) from my children’s bedrooms (all of their doorknobs are of course reversed so we can lock them in “time out.”)

This is, of course, a typical night at my house.

Wanna come over for game night?