There are days when I swear the soundtrack of my house is just “MOMMMM!” layered over the sound of something being snatched out of someone else’s hands.
Not crying. Not even screaming. Just that sharp tattletale yell that means a fight is already in progress and I’m late.
If you have young kids close in age, you know this life. You wake up optimistic. Coffee in hand. Sunlight coming through the kitchen window. Maybe today will be peaceful.
And then Nico looks at Anthony the wrong way and suddenly we’re arguing over who touched whose Lego even though no one was playing with it.
I used to think sibling fighting meant I was doing something wrong. Like maybe I missed a parenting memo. Or maybe Rex and I were too relaxed, too strict, not consistent enough, too consistent… you know the spiral.
Turns out? Kids just fight. Especially siblings. Especially young ones. Especially when one of them is seven and deeply convinced the world should be fair, and the other is four and lives purely on vibes.
Still, “normal” doesn’t make it less exhausting.
Over the years (and by years I mean the last five minutes stretched into eternity), I’ve learned that stopping sibling fights entirely is a myth. But reducing them? Interrupting the chaos? Lowering the daily decibel level so my nervous system can unclench?
That part is possible.
First, I stopped playing referee every single time.
This one was hard. My instinct is to rush in, gather evidence, interview witnesses, deliver justice. Very Judge Judy of me.
But I noticed something: the more I jumped in immediately, the faster they called for me. They weren’t even trying to solve anything. They were outsourcing conflict resolution to Mom HQ.
Now, unless someone is hurt or about to be hurt, I pause. I listen from the other room. I let the argument wobble a little.
Nine times out of ten, it fizzles. Or they get distracted. Or Nico storms off dramatically and Anthony forgets why he was mad and starts humming.
When I do step in, I try not to ask, “What happened?” because that opens a courtroom drama I do not have time for. I ask, “Do you need help fixing this, or do you want space?”
Sometimes they surprise me.
Second, I stopped insisting on fairness in the moment.
This sounds bad. Stay with me.
Kids don’t experience fairness the way adults do. Nico wants rules. Anthony wants what Nico has. If I try to divide everything evenly every time, I end up negotiating snack treaties like it’s the UN.
Now I say things like, “It doesn’t have to be equal to be okay,” and “You’re allowed to be mad without hurting each other.”
Someone is always unhappy. That’s life. And also… kind of freeing.
Third, I noticed when the fights happen.
Patterns are sneaky.
Most of our sibling battles erupt:
– right before dinner
– when they’re overtired
– when we’ve been home too long
– when one of them needs attention and doesn’t know how to ask for it
Once I saw that, the fights felt less personal and more… logistical.
Sometimes the solution isn’t a lesson. It’s a snack. Or outside time. Or sending them to different corners of the house so their nervous systems can breathe.
Fourth, I stopped expecting them to like each other all the time.
This was big for me.
I used to push togetherness hard. “Play together!” “Be nice!” “He’s your brother!”
Now I realize: they don’t need to be best friends at seven and four. They need space to be separate humans who happen to share parents and toys.
So I let them not like each other sometimes.
I don’t force hugs after fights. I don’t make them apologize on a script. I say, “We’ll talk about it later,” and we usually do — when emotions aren’t on fire.
Fifth, I narrate instead of lecture.
When a fight explodes, I don’t launch into a parenting TED Talk anymore. I describe what I see.
“You both wanted the same thing.”
“You’re frustrated because you feel ignored.”
“You’re mad because the rules changed.”
It sounds simple, but it lowers the temperature fast. They feel seen. And I don’t feel like I’m auditioning for Calm Mom of the Year while screaming internally.
Also, full honesty: some days I still lose it.
Some days I yell. Some days I send them to separate rooms because I just need quiet. Some days I look at Rex and say, “Is this our life forever?”
And then there are moments — tiny ones — where they’re laughing together on the couch or defending each other in public or teaming up against me (rude, but impressive).
Those moments don’t cancel out the fighting, but they remind me this relationship is long. It’s messy. It’s growing.
Sibling fights aren’t a problem to eliminate. They’re a skill set in progress.
And some days, progress looks like fewer screams before 9 a.m. which honestly feels like a win I will take without overthinking it.