Truth be told, I had no business having any children, and certainly not more than one child.

I am an only child. I am only grandchild on my dad’s side of the family, which is the side I was most exposed to growing up. What I know about the dark, mysterious, frenetic, confusing, strange world of sibling relationships would not fill a matchbook cover. I always wanted an older brother, but I retired that fantasy after hearing enough horror stories from friends with actual older brothers. In high school and college, I wanted a sibling, if only so that I would look good compared to him/her and my parents would ease up on me. But I got over that too.

Sisters. I don’t get it.

One second, Cat and Tate are in love, inseparable, and conspiring against me. The next, they are crying or sniping or inventing new and creative ways to torment each other. The folks at Gitmo could take a class from my two.

I’ve tried reasoning with them, threatening them, guilt, bribes, yelling and tears. Yet for reasons unknown, they still delight in tweaking each other, JUST BECAUSE THEY CAN.

I used to worry about it a great deal, but frankly, they have worn me down and tempered my ability to care. It helps that many people tell me that when not at home, they feign a loving, close, solid relationship quite believably. In fact, they do so at home as well, such as last night when Cat, 8, told me that she plans to delay going to college until Tate, 7, is also ready to go so that they can go together and be roommates.

But the display of sisterly solidarity was “so yesterday” and with the new dawn came new petty bickering about crayons and bacon and who fed the dogs and who wouldn’t sit with who on the bus and who ate the last yogurt.

And so, with my inexperience and impatience, I have crafted a solution. I cannot make them like each other. I cannot make them get along. But I damn sure can make them fake it for my benefit. Or pay the consequences. Play nice or pay the price, ladies.

A while ago I instituted a new policy. Anyone who torments her sister has to perform five chores of Mom’s choosing. If I can’t establish who the aggressor was, they both do five chores each. If there is bickering or other bad behavior while serving the sentence, additional chores are tacked on. The worse the behavior, the worse the chore. Calling your sister a bad name could get you putting away everyone’s laundry. Physical confrontations could land you pooper scoop duty in the snow (and we have three dogs).

This evening, my post-workout shower (a phrase I never thought I would type, but I am in fact working out these days), was interrupted by Tate wailing like a siren. She burst in to the bathroom, disturbing my steamy escape from reality to inform me “Sissy beat me up.” While shaving I had them both present their cases and then I rendered a verdict of guilt of annoying Mommy by virtue of bad behavior on the part of both and sentenced them to bathroom scrubbing, laundry duty and garage cleaning.

The ironic part is that they both get along swimmingly when serving their punishment. I hear giggles and jokes as they scrub toilets and trudge up and down the stairs. Every time they are forced to work together, by Hanging Judge Mommy, they immediately make the best of it and end up laughing and getting along like the best of friends.

It is quiet now. They have served part of their sentence tonight and have been warned that they have more to do tomorrow after school. I hear them in their rooms, talking amiably. Peace has once again been restored and the bathrooms smell lemony fresh.

Sisters. I don’t get it.

Chances are, I never will. So I have decided not to try. If I can’t manage to fill our lives with sisterly love and harmony, I can fill it with clean laundry and bathrooms.

I can live with that. Ignorance, if accompanied by clean toilets and folded clothes, is bliss.

Amen, Sisters.

Cat and Tate are grounded for 48 hours.

Without going into the details of the underlying infraction, I explained the punishment to them as, “No playing outside or going to your friends’ houses. No riding your scooters. And no electronics. That means ladies that there will be no t.v., no family movie night, no iPods, video games, computers or any other electronic entertainment for the next 48 hours. You can go to school, you can read, you can play in your rooms without electronics. If you get bored, use the free time to clean your rooms.”

The girls reacted surprisingly well to their sentence. There were no tears or pleas for mercy. That should have been my first clue.

In fact, even though it was still daylight out, they went upstairs, showered, huddled briefly in conference in the hall and then came downstairs again a few minutes later in their jammies. (Voluntary showering, huddling together without arguing and getting dressed without 40 increasingly threatening calls from me were clues 2-4 that my attempts to mete out appropriately punitive justice had fallen short and that something was up.)

Cat, 8, was wearing her footy-jammies.

“Cat, aren’t you going to be pretty warm in those tonight?” I asked.

“Oh, no Mom, I am going to need these.”

“Why are you going to need those honey? It isn’t supposed to be cold tonight.”

“It will be in my room.”

“Why do you think it will be cold in your room?”

“Because I closed the heating vent in there,” she responded. “But don’t worry, I plan to sleep in my robe and already pulled out extra blankets.”

“Why would you do all of that?”

“Well, you said we are being punished with no electronics. So we are closing our heating vents, not using our lights and are only going to have cold meat sandwiches for dinner. No microwaves or anything for us until Tuesday,” she said.

“Cat, I said no electronics until Tuesday, not no electricity. I didn’t say you had to become Amish and only eat cold foods,” I said with a more than slightly exasperated tone in my voice.

“I know Mom,” she smiled, “but our punishment will be even more fun this way.”

I am becoming irrelevant.

I’m quite certain that in the not-too-distant future, Cat and Tate will announce, “Mommy, we regret to inform you that due to dynamic conditions within our family unit, we no longer need someone to serve in a Mom capacity full-time. We will keep your name and number on file as we may need your services from time to time on a contract basis, but effective immediately, your full-time services are no longer required. Take a minute, collect yourself, and then one of us can escort you out.”

I won’t be surprised. I have always known that my days in this role are numbered. I have always known that if I do my job, there will come a time when the girls no longer need me. If I do my job exceedingly well, they won’t need me but may still ask me to come around from time to time.

To mix my metaphors, I am in the midst of the parenting roller coaster, looking down the big drop and knowing the any second now, we will pick up speed and the ride will be completely outside of my control. I sit, teetering at the top, trying to enjoy the view and ignore the waves of nausea that I feel. “This is fun. This is exciting. I waited a long time to get to this point. Bring it on.” All of which I feel, except for the part of me that says, “No, no, no, STOP RIGHT NOW. I’m not ready.”

But my readiness, or lack thereof, is immaterial. They control the ride. And I am but one passenger of many who will pass through their lives.

My angst, my sadness, my sudden sense of irrelevance started with a kiss. Or rather started with a missed kiss.

The girls started camp this week. It is their third year at this particular camp and I suspected, correctly, that they would quickly get back into the camp groove. They have. Whereas in years past there was some clinging and whining and “Mommy, stay” this year I was summarily dismissed with a “Later, Mom.”

On day one of camp, as I was leaving, I said “Give Mom a kiss, good-bye.” Instead of upturned cheeks or puckered lips, both bent their heads and allowed me to kiss the backs of them, each one shielding the other from the view of their fellow campers who clearly were not burdened by the embarrassment of a Mother who wanted a kiss.

Yesterday, Cat, ever the Mommy-pleaser, allowed me to kiss the back of her head upon my departure. Tate, ever her own person, shook her head at me when I turned her way and said, “Peace OUT, Mom. Later.”

So just prior to drop off today, as we approached the drop off area, I whispered, “Ladies, am I still allowed to kiss you good-bye at drop off?” I wasn’t prepared for the raucous “No” they yelled in unison. “If you MUST kiss us, do it before we leave the house,” Tate offered. “If you MUST.”

And so it has started. Kisses at camp drop off are now verboten. Holding hands inside the school building was banned earlier this year. Tate, now nearly 7, has started sleeping through the night in her own bed with increasing frequency, something I did not think I would live to see. I will be banned from speaking in front of their friends will be next, followed soon by a prohibition on existing in an overly obvious manner. Despite my loyal years of service, I will be marginalized, left only with “special projects” and then, only if I am lucky.

And so I am left to hang on, try to enjoy the ride, and to try to add value where I can, all the while knowing that like all good rides, this one will be over much too soon, leaving me breathless and wanting more.