At ages 2 and 7, my two sons don’t have a lot in common.

They both want me as a playmate, and sometimes they treat me like a wishbone. One will pull my left hand and the other will pull my right hand.

“My daddy,” my older son will say, taunting the baby.

“No, my daddy,” my younger son insists, taking the bait. “Daddy watch Barney.”

“No, Daddy’s going upstairs to play Foosball with me,” insists my older son, pulling even harder on my hand.

Whenever I become exasperated, I remind myself that soon enough neither of them will want anything to do with me. Still, if I need a few minutes of peace, I fire my secret weapon.

“Why don’t you guys leave Daddy alone and go make a tent?” I’ll say.

Instantly, the boys release my hands and race in opposite directions. My older son sprints to the garage to get a cardboard box. My younger son flies into the hall to fetch a quilt and drag it into the family room.

There’s something about tent-building that sends both of them into a state of euphoria.

My older son retrieves a box the size of a cedar chest to form one support pillar for the tent. Then, he pulls in a straight-back chair from the kitchen to frame the other side.

Meanwhile, my younger son deposits the quilt and then goes about assembling the proper provisions for a tent: cans of Play-Doh, a box of crayons, a flashlight, frozen grapes in a Tupperware cup and a sandwich bag full tiny marshmallows.

These boys, who pick at each other all day, suddenly work together like teammates, united by the noble art of tent-making.

Once the quilt superstructure is in place, my older son anchors the corners of the tent with heavy boxes of Legos. Then, the two boys climb inside and retreat to the darkest corners for a few moments of splendid isolation.

There’s something primal about boys in a tent. Once they’re safely inside, though, the mood of cooperation is quickly broken.

Arguments break out about proper tent activities. The baby wants to do a science experiment by smushing Play-Doh and marshmallows together. Meanwhile, my older son wants to create a door in the quilt covering so he can watch Sports Center on ESPN.

Soon, the blanket begins to quiver, and within minutes the whole tent begins to collapse in on itself.

“Get off me!,” squeals the 7-year-old.

“Waah!” cries the baby.

“OK, OK, guys. Break it up,” I command, but by now the quilt is a balled-up mass of kneecaps and elbows. All you can do is grab a leg and pull.

It takes a few minutes to restore the peace. Thankfully, the boys will not remember the fight, just the fun.

Mention making a tent 24-hours later and they’ll both be off to the races again.

E-mail Mark Kennedy at mkennedy@timesfreepress.com