They bonded once. My boys. Just recently actually, and it stuck with me for a week, allowing me to move buoyantly through my work days, and fold laundry without getting frustrated at the amount of mate free socks. They bonded over clowns.

Normally my two are at each other, bickering like a soon to be divorced couple. The subject of their fights sometimes amuse me, sometimes make me want to pull out mousey brown hair in clumps. Usually it’s the feet. The younger one has a thing for feet, deeming them gross and not worthy of being without a proper covering. The older one gleefully knows this treasure of information and uses it to deploy torture tactics on his pedi phobic brother.

“MOM!! He did it! He put his foot on my knee again!” Ian will scream as if the foot was a large scaly snake complete with fangs, and forked tongue.

David, without fail, will laugh like a madman, watching his brother’s full soft cheeks turn cranberry red, and azure eyes well up with fat goopy tears.

I then of course will scream at both boys, remarking on how ridiculous all this fighting is and then ponder if I had spaced my pregnancies apart better, would they hate each other less. I ponder if they will grow out of it, and then answer my own question when I look back at their track record of getting along; it doesn’t exists. When Ian was an infant David used to run into the room on thick padded feet, yank the binky out of his poor brother’s mouth, and run out, cackling like a shriveled old witch. Ian was no saint either, once going as far as slapping himself sharply on the arm and then insisting the red welt that formed was created by his brother, and certainly not by his own devious hand.

But it happened. They bonded. And over the oddest thing. Our area, along with several others had been inundated with stories of horrific clown sightings. The internet was (and still is) on fire, spinning tales of machete weilding circus creatures, their smirk evil beneath that familiar red nose, terrorizing children. Even the boy’s school bus driver warned them to “go straight home” one drippy Tuesday afternoon.

Now my two heathens were on a mission. Protect the home from clowns using as many homemade weapons they could find. A large walking stick, pale and smooth like a bone became the favorite weapon of choice. They each would hold their sticks close to the body, then in a stealthy move, BOOM, hit the clown in his creamy white temple. Soon they were drawing out stragetic battle plans if they encountered more than one, and researching clown sightings on their Ipones and googling Pennywise. It was heartwarming for a weary mother of two normally ball busting boys to see. There seemed to be a genuine need to protect each other from the clowns, and both boys had some solid ideas on how to rid the town of any potential clownings. I was impressed. And touched of course. As far as I’m concerened Frick and Frack can bond over clowns, as long as they are bonding.