From Both Sides Now

A break in the epic saga of my Unitarian roots (sarcasm intended) for more thoughts on siblings...

So this afternoon I was tutoring two of my all-time favorite students: a quietly brilliant, absent-minded, sweet, dog and music loving teenager and his precocious, hilarious, inquisitive, quirky younger sister, as I do every Tuesday afternoon. I worked with the older brother first, and when we were done he took the book he was reading, the third part of a trilogy on World War II, and sank into a chair in the next room, where he was visible from where we sat in the study.

His younger sister and I began working, then, and after about ten minutes she said, "Hang on one second. I just want to go ask Jack something." I said sure, and watched as she approached him--his legs draped over one arm, fully absorbed in the book. "Jack?" she said, in a voice more tentative than any I had heard her use before. He didn't look up from the book. She persevered. "Do you think I could have one of those gumballs in your room on the window sill?"

"No," he said, still not looking up from the book. He didn't sound angry, just dismissive. Even I knew she would not ask again; there would be no point. She returned to our work table.

"He doesn't even like gum," she said, shaking her head a little but turning right back to her work. I had the distinct sense she wasn't surprised.

I confess that I was, though, a little anyway, watching the scene. My exact thought, just after Jack's "no," was: Why so mean? When she told me he didn't even like gum, was not planning to chew it all himself, not that that's a valid reason for refusing to spare a single gumball, I had another thought. I didn't like it, but I couldn't make it go away.

How many times had I said "no" for no other reason than that I could? Can I use your special crayons? No. Can I wear your sparkly headband? No. Can I just sit near you and bask in your aura? No, no, and no again. Why so mean?

Although I have thought about sibling relationships a lot in the past, read about them, wrote about them, I have never before seen one from the perspective I am now. Before Annika was born, I worried that I would overidentify with Lily. Guess what? I do. Every time Annika's needs take me away from her, or take time or affection or attention that would previously have been hers, I feel terrible. But I did not expect how I would feel watching Annika watch Lily. Lily was Annika's first favorite face, voice, presence. She follows her with her eyes religiously. If I put Annika, who is starting to crawl, down on the floor, she uses every ounce of her strength to move in the direction of Lily. And then Lily jumps up to go and get a piece of cheese in the kitchen, and Annika is left floundering on the floor: sunless, bereft.

In these moments, I feel terrible for Annika, probably--although I am loathe to admit it--remembering myself. I can see, now, how little it costs to do so much, to turn on the sunlight and let it stay for just a while. Not always, nobody's that patient, that nice. But all those "no's." All that indifference. All that, well, power.

Jack is one of the nicest kids I have ever met. He is the kind of kid who would help an elderly woman cross the street. I cannot imagine him making fun of someone, ever being even slightly cruel. These are rare qualities in a teenager. I was not as nice a kid as Jack, but I was pretty nice. I too would have helped the woman cross. I was especially nice to and good with younger kids, who generally loved me. I knew this, basked in it, even. But in our household, I was the one slung in the chair, eyes half closed, buried in my book, too cool to be bothered. I was, alas, the bestower of rejection.

How will I navigate this as a parent? How will I allow Lily her independence and prominent spot in the solar system without allowing her, even unconsciously, to relegate Annika to the role of a minor moon? I have inklings already; it's not about what I do or don't allow. It actually has, will have, very little to do with me.