I was chopping carrots to sauté for dinner. They were local. They were organic. If they could have been free range, grass-fed or antibiotic free I'm sure they would have been. I was admiring their shape and texture as I peeled them, remembering my farmer of a Grandfather who said in his infinite wisdom, "You have to eat a peck of dirt before you die." I kept peeling, and imagined how clean dirt must have been when he said that. They just don't make dirt like they used to.

I felt proud, smug almost because I was preparing my children's won¬derful organic carrots for dinner. It was something I could momentarily feel good about. I call these parenting moments my NPR moments. I could hear the classical music in the background. I was somehow transported to that NPR place while images of world peace and harmony, love, kindness all sprung into my consciousness, (oh, the power of organic carrots!!!). I glanced up into the back garden. I imagined my three sons to be picking berries, holding hands and playing ring-around¬the-rosey, something peaceful and gentle to match my own mood.

What I did see was this: outside of my weapon-free house's kitchen window I spied them, each bearing hockey sticks, shooting one another. They held them, tucked under their arm, just as a young soldier might. Making sounds to demonstrate their understanding of how a weapon is loaded, screaming in angry voices, "I GOT YOU...YOU'RE DEAD... NOW DIE!!!" The dead one would suffer a violent ordeal-flipping, flopping, moaning, bleeding. Finally giving into his death, he would lie there frozen, eyes-to-the-sky and count to ten. BOING! He would spring up, grab his weapon and promptly and without fanfare shoot his brother.

Good Lord, how did this pacifist mother who can't so much as kill a mosquito birth these three wild soldiers??? And what about the carrots? What about my NPR moment? Doesn't eating organic healthy food do anything for us?

Raising three boys is living constantly in a foreign land. I sometimes feel like I speak a different language entirely. Glancing from the carrots to the warfare was such a stark contrast that I almost felt like I was watching a movie. I actually felt a little nauseous. These are my boys out there, the ones who say please and thank you, those whom I nurture and cuddle, getting pleasure from pretend war.
Brothers are supposed to stick together. They are supposed to "watch each others' backs." They are on the same team, aren't they? What makes them need to act out this aggression so? I've read all the books. I've read the ones that say it's part of their physiology and wiring. I've read the ones that say we create this in our society of violence and greed. I never established where I stood on the subject. It's been an experi¬ment, really. I gave my son Rew a doll when he was two, but after a few minutes of intrigue, he handed it to our dog and they played tug until it was sufficiently dismembered. I remember watching with my new par¬enting eyes, in dismay, and chalking it up to two-year-oldness.

Here in my garden, their ages represented three various stages of boy development. And they all seemed to need to act this out with equal ardor. The four-year-old understands what surrender means as well as the eleven-year-old. The seven-year-old quiet, mild-tempered middle child shoots his brothers with as much reckless abandon as the others do.

This acting out must serve some purpose that is simply beyond my ability to grasp, and if my goal is indeed to create peace, perhaps my role is to simply accept without judgment that boys are different from girls and leave it at that. If I express discontent it may very well fuel their desire to play these games. They might feel, on some level, that I disap¬prove of them, rather than the games they play. Peace. Yes, I could accept that.

"World Peace Begins At Home"....I think I read that on a bumper sticker the other day. Up in my garden, it sure doesn't look like world peace to me. My response to it would have to be the first step. How I choose to allow their play to affect me is my job. My house will remain weapon-free, and I can turn a blind eye to the subtle signs of boy war¬fare. I can ignore the pancake being shaped into some sort of something that I wish was Mickey Mouse, like the ones they make at Lou's. Peace.

"Hey fellas, dinner's ready. Please come in."

The hockey sticks were propped outside the door, the boys were seated and the good organic carrots served. As we held hands and said our family's version of Grace I was heard to say, "Thank you God for these boys and all they have to teach me. AMEN!"