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Elizabeth has left me alone with the boys again. She’s at the supermarket, and I’m watching them carefully. Josh and Ben are like two ticking time bombs; sure, they seem relatively calm right now, sitting on the couch, watching Rugrats. But wait until the next commercial break and whamo – another altercation is sure to commence.

Did I lose focus that easily, or shift gears so unpredictably as a child? Hell no. I was an angel. I can’t for the life of me, remember giving either of my parents a hard time – especially not during the sacred “TV Time”. And with our black and white GE 19” television that pulled in a whopping 2 and a half channels through the deluxe rabbit ears, the commercials were actually more exciting to me than the dreary line-up of late 1960’s TV programs. Get up from your spot in those days and you might miss the ‘Plop-plop Fizz-fizz’ ad or the one where the dog chases around the little animated chuck wagon.

Josh and Ben (now 7 and 4, respectively) have no idea how good they have it, and it kills me – they certainly don’t believe me when I tell them; and I never miss an opportunity to tell them. Yet even with all of these high-tech luxuries at their immediate and unlimited disposal, their favorite pastime is still ‘Make Your Brother Scream As Loud As He Can’. If I had only known this at the onset of my journey as their step dad I could have saved a bundle - maybe I could have even kept that new GameBoy we bought Josh for Christmas for myself. Beneath my relatively demure, mild-mannered façade lies a sleeping giant of a gaming geek; alas, I have grown wise, and realized that reclaiming my position as Gaming Master would require ignoring Elizabeth far longer than is acceptable. Besides, crushing your college roommate at Marble Madness is one thing – Josh is just a kid. So I will be an adult and do the right thing; I will let him continue on thinking he can play Super Mario Brothers better than I can (or could, since I’ve lost my Mojo).

But there’s no time for waxing nostalgic on video games of years past. I must look sharp and stay on my toes, for controlling these kids from within this wheelchair is like quelling an insurgency. Sure, they may look glassy-eyed and zoned out staring at the TV screen (a 42” Sony with surround sound, the lucky little buggers), but don’t let that fool you. They’re actually re-evaluating their tactics, changing and adapting to my latest defensive maneuvers in an effort to foster complete lawlessness and chaos.

For instance, at the last commercial break Ben, who turned four about six months ago thought it would be funny to beat his older brother with his plastic ride-on choo-choo train. Ironically, the decal on the side of the little locomotive reads “Playwell Express”. Ben’s newly mounted offensive is really a retaliation—since Josh did the same to him just ten minutes before. But was that because Ben had done it first? Damned if I can remember. Once the commercials are over, the shouting stops instantly and they melt back on couch. It’s hard to tell them apart from ordinary children.

I’ve tried for months now to get Josh to give up his non-stop razzing of his tiny brother. Give the little tike a break and what’d ya say huh, Champ – but it’s no use. Josh must win, always, it doesn’t matter against whom; a toddler half his age or the crippled guy who pays the mortgage. Besides, Elizabeth read somewhere that it isn’t kosher to put that much responsibility and pressure on the older sibling at this age. So we’ll have to put up with Josh’s constant barrage, and hope that Ben won’t completely hate him by the time he’s old enough to meaningfully retaliate.

I had no younger siblings to pounce on, but I still ask myself: Was I this restless, this riotous, at Josh’s age? My sister and I shared a fairly peaceful coexistence; but she, two years my senior, would slap me around a bit if I got out of line or too much in her space. However, she did look out for me in other ways, courageously seeking revenge on any older boy from the neighborhood that dared pick on me. Overall I had as much concern for her Barbies as she had for my G.I. Joes - the palpable divide of our gender and age seemed an effective buffer to any rivalry that might have cropped up between us.

I’m jerked from my introspection by screaming. Pillow fight, damn! I’ve got to hand it to Ben, who’s giving it his all with a couch throw pillow that’s bigger than he is. But he’s no match against Josh. I have to physically insert myself between the two warriors, which is a harder than it sounds. I must traverse a living room floor littered with Matchbox cars, Brio trains and sections of wooden rail tracks (the track we made earlier today has been destroyed by my two little Godzillas). I hear crunching under my wheels as I attempt to maneuver myself in between the line of fire. Okay, okay – stop you two! I grab each pillow, and throw them out of reach. Miraculously Josh sits down on his end of the couch without trying to grab another pillow from nearby.

Josh and Ben still reserve their most egregious tantrums and outbursts for their mother. This is of no credit to me, for according to my own Mother (a former school teacher with a Masters in Education) kids only have their most intense emotional outbursts among those whom they feel the safest with. I’m still a glorified baby sitter to them—there’s still that self conscious filtering that occurs when they express themselves solely in my presence. I am simultaneously relieved and yet saddened by this. I need to be patient, for in a few years they won’t hold back, and I’ll find myself begging for the days when I was still a second class citizen in the family hierarchy.

Now they’re throwing Legos at each other. I do an about-face and once again and break it up. Elizabeth had asked if I could fold the laundry while she was out, but fat chance of that, not with a sibling civil war about to erupt. Josh is throwing Legos and he looks my way after each scream from Ben, a devilish grin that accentuates the freckles across his nose and cheeks.

It suddenly dawns on me—this is just a show for my benefit! No wonder every time I attempt to wheel into the other room I hear a scream. Now it all makes sense. Don’t you get it, you are the game, stupid!

They’re doing it on purpose – I know it. It’s payback for me wrecking their family. Josh and Ben are clever—well beyond cheesy after-school special-esque screaming “You’re not my Dad!” or “I hate you!” That would be way too easy to deal with. Instead they’re going to get me in a much more subtle and effective manner, by slowly driving me insane. Look at Josh, the way he’s grinning. He’s probably plotted this whole thing from the start, the clever little bugger.

(This is an excerpt from "They Call Me Wheels", a memoir by Geoffrey E. Matesky, NOW AVAILABLE from iUniverse, Amazon.com, & Barnes & Noble (bn.com). If you are a bookseller and wish to obtain copies, please contact the sales department of my publisher, iUniverse.com for more details.)