The male mind is an extraordinary thing. Despite years of evolution and progress, there still exists a strong “hunter” instinct. The urge to defend what is yours. It’s what drives men to provide for their families, protect their homes and chant “not in our house” during their home team’s goal-line stand.

It is, apparently, what also drives my 2 boys to defend their Lego creations with enough force to draw blood.

It never ceases to amaze me what my boys can turn into weaponry.

The shade umbrella that came with the sand table? Hidden in the garage after the 5 year old used it to try to remove the 3 year old’s spleen after the 3 year old had the audacity to lay a pinky on the 5 year old’s Iron Man mask.

The toy golf clubs my dad bought them, hoping to turn them into the next Tiger Woods? Banished to the closet when they started beating each other over the heads with them in a cage match duel over who was entitled to the green base Lego piece. (Based on reports that Tiger’s wife beat his car with a golf club when she found out he was cheating, perhaps this behavior isn’t limited to boys.)

The jump ropes that came in one of the multitude of goodie bags they’ve received this year? Thrown in the garbage after the 3 year old tried to use it as a choke collar on the 5 year old after the 5 year old dared to look at one of the 18 Lightning McQueen cars that the 3 year old is currently obsessed with.

I have removed anything in the shape of a stick, gun, or sword from my house, and yet, they still manage to turn the most innocuous items into WMD. Play-Doh is easily turned into bullets, cars are palm-sized projectiles and meatballs are delicious little hand grenades.

I am constantly on alert for the next offensive in the battle of 3 year old versus 5 year old. Don’t assume that the 3 year old is automatically at a disadvantage; he may be younger, but he’s wily. And built like a lineman. (I’ve already taught him how to wave and mouth, “Hi, Mom” to the camera for his inevitable Monday Night Football debut.) The 5 year old is skinny, but agile and quick. They’re pretty evenly matched.

And I am outmatched.

I was awakened the other morning just after dawn to the sound of the 3 year old screaming, “he hit me” and the 5 year old yelling, “I didn’t do anything.” (I really need to invest in ear plugs). I came into the kitchen to find the 3 year old with a bleeding scratch on his face, and the two of them standing at 10 paces, pretzel rods held like fencing swords. Did you know that a broken pretzel rod is sharp enough to draw blood? Well, you do now.

I know boys will be boys. I know that beating each other silly is a fundamental part of being brothers. And I know that this is just a phase, like most parenting crises, and when the day comes that they no longer feel the need to attack one another over whether we watch “Despicable Me” for the 118^th time or “MegaMind” for the 129^th time, I will raise a glass of wine to my accomplishment, namely, getting them through childhood alive and with as few scars as possible.

Until then, Constant Vigilance!