Siblings Ad Infinitum

Sibling rivalry is one of the major, hot-button parenting issues, covered exhaustively by pediatricians and educators, discussed at length by all who have a sibling or are parents to siblings, made the subject of myriad books and articles. It would seem, on this, there is little else to say. And yet.

I am interested in the ways siblings interact as a sibling myself, as an avid amateur observer of sibling dynamics, and now, as a parent. I have read many books on the subject, hundreds of articles, and have discussed all manner of sibling issues with pediatricians, educators and neighbors with whom I find myself trapped in the elevator. I even wrote a book on the subject, a book that began with a different focus, on weight and its role in a family, but took on a life of its own and became about sisters: the way in which siblings help create each other's self.

When I watch Lily and Annika together, or spend focused time with them both, as I do so very often these days, I am not generally surprised by the ways in which they interact. From the very beginning, Annika has watched Lily, been unable to look away if she is in the room. Lily is oblivious to this unless it is pointed out, at which point she seems, briefly, pleased, before turning back to whatever it was she was doing beforehand. From as soon as she was able, Annika has tried to emulate Lily. If Lily laughs, Annika laughs. If Lily cries, Annika's eyes widen, her mouth makes a tiny worried O. Now that she has so much control over her hands and fingers and is crawling around like a demon, she follows her, literally, from room to room, always so far behind that she sometimes ends up at a wall (quite literally), shrieking with frustration.

Annika's mobility, increasing interactiveness, has had the expected effect of annoying Lily, in spite of her regularly expressed desire for Annika to be big enough to play with. I think she is getting an inkling of Annika's impending free will, realizing that Annika will not be merely a ball of clay in her hands, a prop in her productions, although of course she will be those, sometimes, too.

Yesterday afternoon, I was with both girls, and Lily asked me if we could play with her magnetic shapes. She has a very cool set of colored shapes that have magnetic edges so you can construct three-dimensional creations with them, build houses, castles, pyramids, whatever inspires you. I said sure, but explained that Annika would want to watch and that we would have to let her play with the shapes too. Lily suggested we give her something else instead, and I said we could try it but that it was likely she would want what Lily had and that we needed to be prepared for this to happen.

Which, of course, it did. For a few minutes Annika was content with the two dinky wooden blocks Lily had ostentatiously bestowed upon her. Then she caught wind of what we were doing, of the prettier, colorful, translucent shapes that made clicking sounds and appeared to stick together like magic. Or rather she saw what Lily was doing and the rest of the world faded away. I see that: how Lily exists for her already in sharp focus as all else becomes so much background static.

After some construction, or rather letting Lily boss me around for a few minutes while she constructed (with Annika watching, the apprentice bossee), I went into the kitchen to remove a pan from the oven. I was gone for about 10 seconds. When I returned, Annika was in the corner of the room, sort of wedged into the corner, whimpering in a sad--not an injured or desperate--way. Lily was playing, a bit too innocently, I thought, with her magnetic shapes.

"Lil?" I asked. "How did Annika get over there so fast?" She turned to see that I had scooped up Annika and was holding her on my lap on the couch.

"I moved her there," she said.

"Why?" I asked. Relatively new lesson: It is the idiot job of the idiot parent to always, always ask the rhetorical question.

"She wouldn't stop grabbing my magnets," she said, as I mouthed the words along with her.

And there it is: no surprises. When I think of my earliest memories of being with Alison, they fall into one of two categories. Either she is a pawn in my game, the nurse to my doctor, the student to my teacher, for as long as I want her to be. Or, she is an obstacle in my path, the destructor of towers, the thrower of board games, the scribbler of coloring books, the--sigh, again--stealer of magnets.

But as I said, none of this surprises me. What does is how much Lily's frustration seems legitimate to me, how little I am able to comfort myself with the "she'll be glad for it later" explanation, how often I, too feel at odds with the situation, the dramatic shift borne of necessity in the ways Lily and I focus on each other, along with an equally sharp pang when I realize all the one-on-one attention--more than three-and-a-half years worth, a lifetime in early childhood--that Annika will never have.

Anyway. More to come. Crying baby calls. Fortunately, Lily is asleep.