The Ties That Bind: Welcome to ‘Hey, Little Sister’

NEARLY FOUR YEARS AGO, I went to the hospital, on the day before my own birthday, and delivered a baby sister. She was just under 8 pounds, with a thick head of dark hair and deep, dark blue eyes that seemed to focus instantly, and would not let go. My husband likes to joke that if we’d had a daughter first, we might have thought our son a little, um, slow. He also occasionally says that if she’d been our first, she might have been our last. In both cases, though rude, he’s not necessarily wrong.

Her name means “Rock.” As in stone, not music. She lives up to it. At 3-1/2, she can carry on a conversation about almost any topic, whether she actually knows anything about it, or not. (In this, I am not too proud to say, she closely resembles her mother.) She has complicated relationships with an extended family of dolls, most of whom are named “Baby,” though a couple are called “Butterfly.” She can draw excellent flowers, recognizable humans, and vibrant suns.

She is absolute in her convictions, certain in her rectitude, on all subjects.

She terrorizes her 7-year-old brother.   Shrinks (at least the Jungians) will tell you that naming is everything, it is an act of power and creation.  I think that’s a lot of pressure to put on new parents, but I do notice that Seven, too, rises to meet his name, which means “river.”  He’s easy, for the most part: emotional, full of feeling, but also mellow. As a toddler, he was the kid who never (well, almost never) hit, bit or terrorized, and looked at those who did with gentle non-comprehension.  All of this, it should be said, changed when he met the Rock.

Until the last year or so, it was mostly sunshine and light between the sister and the brother. He openly doted on her, and she looked up to him, or ignored him, depending upon her mood. Both seem satisfied with this arrangement. When she started school, everything changed.

At first, they loved being in school together. (And they both complained bitterly this fall, when my son decamped to a different school.) But at home, things grew tense. He’d growl and grimace at her when she invaded his space. In response, she’d scream and cry and advance further into enemy territory, all at the same time.

Is this just the way it goes for siblings, and the scars from all these battles and counterattacks will be only that–healed reminders of old conflicts among allies?

Saying “no” to her just made her grit her teeth, elevate her decibel level and push harder for whatever it was she felt was her due. He’d respond in kind, calling out for parental reinforcements, or, instead, mounting his own assault, usually by grabbing and then letting go of her arm–this, after all, is a kid who doesn’t really believe in physical violence of the non-cartoon kind. Except when the target is the most annoying person in the world.

Then, my loving, sweet boy morphs into a ninja bad guy bent on revenge and destruction. Meanwhile, the instigator weeps and cries and my heart melts–she’s younger! she’s still a baby!–I know she’s a pain in the a** but don’t yell/grab/scare her!

“You always take her side,” he cries, wounded, slamming his bedroom door against both of us girls. And the thing is–I don’t–always take her side, that is. Really, when I’m rational, I see why she’s irritating, and understand why he responds, in anger, as he does. (I would, too, I suspect.) But at what point will she have to take responsibility for her behavior to him (or to the rest of us, for that matter?)

Or is this just the way it goes for siblings, and the scars from all these battles and counterattacks will be only that–healed reminders of old conflicts among allies?

You see–I don’t know. I don’t have any idea what a sister feels, or should feel, or what it is to be the youngest who’s never been alone or the oldest who remembers the luxury of solitude. I’ve only ever been an only. How in the world am I supposed to help these two navigate the high trails and falling water of siblinghood?

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