I made the second trip to the ER in a week tonight.

I had to take my son in because his brother busted his nose in a fist fight.

I have one boy with a black eye and bruised ribs, and another with a busted snout and a healing split lip from the last altercation (which was why we were there last week for visit number one).

I'm tired of refereeing these fights.  I'm tired of wading in and breaking them up.  I'm tired of them fighting over every damn thing.  I'm tired of little D (who has his father's name, attitude and temper) teasing J, who walks away for as long as he can, but who them lets fly with a torrent of fists and head butts (Jake's got the Glaswegian Kiss down pat now).  I'm tired of blood on the floor and the sinks, ice packs and crying boys.  I'm tired of taking things away, grounding them and such.  It's not working.

They need their dad.  They're getting to the age where little boys really need their father's influence, and their dad seems to be perpetually gone.

Big D and I talked about this the other night.  He's going to try and cross train into a field that deploys less when he gets back from this stint in the sand box.  He says he can't do it much more.

Neither can I. 

Tomorrow, I'm marching them up to talk to D's commander (the top cop on this installation and a Col.).  I've asked him to put the fear of god in them, give them the official brief on why it's not okay to hit your brother, period, and what the repercussions for doing so are (apart from that Momma does).  Harsh?  Perhaps.  But so's breaking your brother's nose.  So's busting his lip and kicking him in the ribs when he's down.

D's absence is starting to show, and I'm not the only one who's feeling it.