There Goes the Neighborhood

My boys got into their first fight. You are probably wondering, "How did this happen? They go to a nice private school with well-behaved Jewish children."

I know. But we live with my parents in Lutz among houses built in the Seventies and attitudes cultivated in the Fifties. Men still believe communism is a major threat to world peace. They walk around drinking Brandy Alexanders and talk about their lawns. Women in the neighborhood wear aprons, walk their kids to the bus stop, and discuss ways to marinate whatever dead animals they have in the "frigidaire." The girls all play with dolls and the boys double dog dare each other into spitting contests for baseball cards.

In this type of environment, a good old-fashioned ass whipping was bound to happen. I suppose on some level, as long as my children aren't left with lasting physical or emotional scars, I'm okay with the lessons they are learning on their grandparents' front lawn.

Two scrappy Irish kids live next door - we'll call them Patrick and Sean. They have been playing with my children for years. Patrick is older, around eleven or twelve. Sean is, like my boys, between 8 and 9. Sometimes they all play with lightsabers and other neighborhood kids join in for major galactic battles between good and evil. These lightsabers are made with sticks and tinfoil and have been certified "crazy insane" by the Consumer Products Safety Commission.

From time to time, lightsabers and attitudes can get out of hand. The other day, Patrick's lightsaber hit Youngest in the ear.

"Hey," Youngest said, rubbing the side of his head. "That's against the rules."

Apparently, there are rules. You are allowed to hit someone in the legs and torso area. Someone takes out a testicle? Handle it. Anything above the neck? Off limits. On this particular morning, Patrick didn't much care for the rules.

"What are you going to do about it?" Patrick asked.

Just a few feet away, Oldest bravely defended a rebel fleet from Sean, the imperial stormtrooper. They seemed to catch on to the ensuing drama between their brothers and started playing with just a tad more hostility than usual. Ooops, Sean's lightsaber hit Oldest in the head.

"Hey," Oldest said, "you're not fighting fair and I'm uncomfortable with that."

Right hand to God, those were the kid's exact words. As if logic and good communication works with neighbors who play outside without shirts on. Sean threw down his weapon and said, "Put 'em up."

Where was I during this event? It's no secret that a modern liberal feminist such as myself is a bit out of place in beautiful downtown Lutz. Most mornings, I'm inside biting my nails and wondering why I'm not in a northeastern city or a nice commune somewhere. I tried to intervene, but my husband and dad insisted our precious boys handle it themselves.

"We're not a pascifists, Katie," Husband said.

"Fine," I snapped. "But if someone pokes an eye out, I'll sue."

Oldest backed into the garage and tried to run inside. Husband poked his head out the side door and said, "Defend yourself, son." Another moment later, Youngest tried to sneak away as well. "Don't leave your brother's side," Husband told him at the front door.

"They're trying to get out of it," I said. "Nonviolent resistance."

"Not on my watch," Husband and Dad said.

Oldest and Youngest had no choice really. They balled up their fists and started swinging. The fistfight ended in a matter of seconds. Sean got clocked in the mouth and Patrick aimed too high, spun around, and Youngest nabbed him in the back of the head.

Both ran home crying and vowing revenge.

Oldest and Youngest came inside, shook up and teary-eyed, but triumphant nonetheless. Husband told them they better never go looking for a fight, but shouldn't be afraid to defend themselves. I put ice on sore knuckles and bruised ears, comforted that my growing boys still needed hugs and kisses from Momma after their first major rumble.

I came home from grocery shopping the next day and found all four boys in the pool while Husband fired up the grill and Dad tended to the lawn. I shrugged my shoulders, put on an apron, and got out the Brandy.

When in Lutz, after all...