I am a back-sliding pacifist. This means that I mouth words of non-violence, project a forgiving and accepting mien, and spout utopian political opinions loudly—conveniently so, as someone who has not lost a close friend or family member in an armed conflict since World War II.

On the flip side, you just try calling my child "a disruptive influence" in the neighbourhood swimming pool and Imma kick your butt Sarah-Palin-Momma-Bear style (or possibly just gossip maliciously behind your back—whichever is most convenient at the time).

As my rational Jekyll self, I do not generally allow my kids to play with toys resembling weapons (Star Wars lightsabers do not count because let's face it, lightsabers are cool no matter how old you are). Most moms share this sensitivity, so birthday party presents usually consist of safe toys like Play-Doh, Lego, and remote-control vehicles (some of which Make Noises, but that's another rant). Cruel and unusual punishment? If the camo-wearing kid down the street got a BB gun and fancy Swiss Army knife for his 5th birthday, apparently so.

This is how I was raised: on a safe diet of The Cosby Show, skipping rope, and non-confrontational games like Pick-Up-Sticks (because tempers can flare when you cream someone in Monopoly). However, it goes without saying that Play-Doh, twigs, rubber bands and papier mâché can be transformed into Weapons of Mass Destruction lickety-split.

Usually when one of my budding ninjas runs with blood-curdling scream through the house grasping a household implement, I use my mommy reflexes to gymnastically hurdle over heaps of toys and laundry baskets to snatch the weapon from his grasp while scooping the intended target out of harm's way before you can say "Hi-yah!"

However, when that household implement is a toilet plunger and the wielder is whirling it through the air scattering (as I gut-wrenchingly assume) E.coli over my furniture and clean laundry, my good humour vanishes and Mrs. Hyde screeches in her best NCIS tough-guy voice: "Drop it, punk!"

Does this actually have the intended effect? Absolutely not, because bringing Mommy to the brink is as much the goal as beaning little brother on the buttocks with the plunger in the first place.

After that, Mrs. Hyde needs to go to her room for a time out. Maybe call her sister and tattle the tale I just told you. And then blog about it afterward.

What drives you to the edge, and how do you deal with it?