Benjamin and Kyle came running up to me, flushed with arguing. In one boy's fist was a blue sticky hand.
"It's my sticky hand!"
"No, it's my sticky hand!"
I took a deep breath and turned to my children. "Well, let's see," I said slowly, "I guess what we ought to do is to cut the sticky hand in half. That way, you each can have part of it."
My oldest son immediately grinned at me. "No, he can have it," he said, and turned away.
His younger brother grinned at me as well. "Yeah, cut it in half!"
Now, it was my turn to grin. "It's yours," I said, handing it to my oldest son.
After all, who am I to argue with Solomon?