The Chinese discovered the idea of magnetic attraction more than 1,600 years ago. I didn't realize what a big part it would play in my life until I had children. My two oldest sons are simply drawn to each other, in friendship, in warfare and sometimes both.

Jackson, 5, and Addison, almost 4, were born on opposite ends of the magnetic spectrum, and so I find them clinking together, coupled by their dissimilarity. I can't pry them apart. Often it is a coupling of play and brotherhood, those glorious moments when yin and yang entwine in perfect harmony.

But frequently there is a clash of wills and ideas. Then the verbal jousting escalates into full-blown combat. The Chinese magnetized iron by heating it, and in the heat of an Austin day, that pull seems even stronger.

We have an entire house, with several bedrooms, and yet my kids end up looking like a cheap golden chain, all knotted and twisted together until I don't know which appendage belongs to which boy. I peel them apart, put them in separate rooms and turn my back. Minutes later they've hurled through time and space, crashing into one another like Brio trains.

As soon as I send Jackson to time-out on the back porch, Addison sidles up to the back door and starts to turn the handle.

"Where are you going?" I ask warily.

"I want to be with Jackson," he whines.

"But Jackson is in time-out because he karate-chopped you over the head with a wooden spoon."

On both sides of the door, kids are whining and crying just to be with each other, just to poke each other's eyeballs out.

Sometimes I think it's best to leave them to their own devices, to weave a dance of separate play, brief interaction and the occasional disagreement. But some days it seems we're just steps away from "Lord of the Flies."

Because the magnetic attraction, when it isn't directed at siblings, is almost always directed at mischief.

Left to themselves, my boys have spray-painted their bicycles, sawed the legs off the backyard furniture and cut the bodysuit off their baby brother with scissors. These are the days that try a mother's soul.

But, mostly, the magnetic attraction is directed at sibling rivalry.

Now that Jackson is in school, Addison doesn't know what to do with himself. Jackson, like the North Star, has always been the constant in Addison's life. Now he wanders the house like a lost soul. He has a sweet younger brother to play with, but 2-year-olds don't yet understand the mechanics of a really good fight, one that involves name-calling, idle threats and a few thwacks with a plastic light saber. All my youngest wants to do is play, but that can only be fun for about 10 minutes, tops.

So the real action happens once Jackson walks in the door from kindergarten. The boys greet like lost comrades; then they pounce on each other.

This isn't just a boy thing. It's simply the chemistry of certain personalities clashing over and over again. I remember the frustration of having an older brother who always outperformed me in our childhood debates, which is why I finished one fight by mashing orange bubble gum in his hair.

And, in the end, our siblings play a large part in determining who we become. Through my brother, I learned the arts of negotiation and compromise. He was excessively patient with me and my moods, and I grew to understand his complex mode of reason. We molded around each other, two puzzle pieces trying to fit together.

I watch my boys: Jackson, thick-chested, strong-willed and serious; Addison, a slip of a boy whose laughter and silliness alternate with flashes of hot frustration. Addison pulls Jackson from his intense thinking and makes him laugh at things as simple as the word "pickle." Jackson draws Addison into his chasm of creative thought. They complement each other, pushing and pulling, swinging each other between north and south, the polar opposites.

Living in Austin, where it snows every 500 years, my kids can't stop talking about real winters, the kind that igloos are made from. They are especially fascinated with the North Pole, a place of ice without a single house to dot the landscape. I'm told that if you take a compass to the North Pole the needle would point straight down.

Perhaps if I hauled my troop up there they would actually disentangle, lie down and finally go to sleep.

This article originally appeared in the Austin American-Statesman , and is used here by permission.