I know I've already done something like this, but that was a poem from my own point of view. This is written from Splinter's, for I thought it would be good to see how the father realises that his sons aren't that similar, despite what one would think.
It was quite a sight to behold.
The four of them were in a circle, making car noises and, occasionally, the sound of an angry driver. I was glad that their rambunctious games were on hold for now. Five year old children have to become tired at some point.
They would be fine for around ten minutes.
I looked at them from my position at the doorway of my bedroom. They're were all stationed around two toy truck I had given them that morning for their birthday. One had a wheel missing and the other had an absent left door, but my sons had accepted the gift with much gratitude. They then proceeded to play a game of 'New York City Roads', fortunately without the harsh language that I remembered from my time on the surface. The worst they would cry was only mild, nothing close to what an average driver would shout from their car window.
Even then, as they all played together, I could see the differences that each of my sons had, more than the different tones of skin, seeing as they all dawned the same brown eyes. They each had their own personality, with their own strengths as weaknesses that even now they still possess.
Leonardo, my eldest son, always took it upon himself to take care of his siblings. He would help them, play with them, and attempt to keep them out of mischief. He was strong, not just physically, but also mentally, never wanting to leave tasks uncompleted. He, like his brothers, had his fair share of phobias, mainly a paralysing fear of heights, but often pushed them to the side to comfort his brothers.
Raphael was a different story. He was tempered, the slightest thing could set him off. He often found himself fighting with Leonardo, for the two eldest usually locked horns, a trait that has continued to this day. He found himself calling his elder brother nicknames such as 'Splinter Junior', which the youngest would sometimes contribute to. Under the angry outer layer, however, there was loyalty and kindness, the likes of which he mostly shared with Michelangelo. I knew in my heart that if my sons ever found themselves in trouble, Raphael would protect them to the end, even at his tender age.
To say Donatello was smart would be an understatement. Really he was just short of a genius. He often found himself in a book or wrapped up in a project, usually repairing old toys for his siblings. He loved to find out how things worked. Earlier on that year he had taken the toaster, taken it apart , and preceded to put it back together again, in the process upgrading it so that it was better than ever before. Donatello was a quiet child, not speaking until he was three years old. I had worried that he had something wrong with him, until I found him speaking to Leonardo, using vocabulary that I was barely familiar with. He was not as confrontational as his elder brothers, but what he lacked in confidence, he made up in intelligence and kindness.
Michelangelo saw the world differently to his brothers, not seeing it for a polluted world of dangers, but instead as a child, lost and confused, just looking for guidance. He was, and still is, quite oblivious to certain situations, often losing himself in his comic books and colouring. I still remember once when Leonardo, aged four, told me that he never wanted Mikey to grow up, for if he did, then he wouldn't be their little brother anymore.
My sons way not be normal by human standards, but by a father's, they are just like any other children.
"Raph, stop it, you're hurting Mikey."
And like any other child, they have too much energy for this certain ageing rat.