Ten days ago, Mo and I declared all-out war on each other. He kicked, he screamed, he punched, he trampled his little brother, he even tore my shirt so hard that he ripped the collar seam. I retaliated by spanking him in anger; then I retreated to the kitchen and threw mixing-bowl grenades that dented both my oven and the bowls.
That's when I knew: If we didn't declare a cease-fire, right then and there, we were going to start hauling out the nuclear weapons. Since we live in a rental house, that was definitely not an option.
So, I called in a third-party mediator to help resolve our dispute. My friends J&L welcomed Mo into their home for an impromptu sleepover, then took him camping for a week in eastern Washington while I cooled down, found some perspective, and started a much-needed round of Zoloft.
Mo returned from camping as a happy, dirty preschooler (and proud owner of a garter snake he caught and named "Sunlight.") I welcome him back as a calm, joyful mother (who refused to allow Sunlight into her home, yard, or neighborhood).
Thanks to our cease-fire - and the Olympics - Mo and I have, for the most part, maintained our cease-fire and upheld peace in our little nation. Condoleeza would be proud.