Sibling Revelry

 I am dreading Tuesday morning, when Sophia and I will have to put my sister, Jennifer and her son, Kevin, back on a plane to Florida. 

It had been two years since we had seen them.  Before they arrived Sophia confessed, “I don’t remember what Aunt Jenny looks like.”  By the way she burrowed into my leg as they approached us in the airport, I could tell they were essentially strangers to her. 

How did we let so much time go by?  We had tried to visit in the past, but we had such different lives, such different schedules it would have required a lot of bending that neither one of us was terribly willing to do.

Jennifer was the first to bend when she suggested coming here instead.  It was a step towards me, and am a firm believer that when someone takes a step towards you, you move forward to meet her halfway. 

We both pulled our kids out of school.  We both took time off from work.  We both invested financially and emotionally in coming together again.

After greeting me, Jennifer bent down to say hello to Sophie, who refused to face her. 

“She has to warm up and get to know me,” Jennifer acknowledged, pulling back, not disappointed. 

But it took Sophie no time to warm up to Kevin.  Within seconds she was chasing him around baggage claim.  The two of them shrieking. 

Come Tuesday, I will be sad.  But, Sophia will be heartbroken.

In no time, Jennifer and Kevin became integrated into our lives.  We found a rhythm—or maybe it was a rediscovered rhythm—something revived from our childhood.  Waking together, dining together, playing together.  Oh, it hasn’t been without its bumps—the same bumps that have always been there, but even the bumps are terribly familiar. 

Sophia and Kevin found a rhythm too, not unlike ours.  He has extracted giggles  from so deep inside her belly, that listening, I am aware that she is experiencing a new dimension of joy. 

They have developed private jokes.  The words “guacamole” and “room service” send them into hysterics.  He has played endless games of tic-tac-toe with her on his DS, though he’d much rather be playing skeeball.  And when he has beckoned for her to come sit next to him, the child who will touch no one climbs right into his lap, puts her arms about his neck, and hangs on his every word.

He is the big brother she will never have. 

He has taken up this mantle.  As an only child, Kevin knows what it is like to be alone, siblingless, living in the world of adults.  There is a tacit agreement:  you be mine and I will be yours. 

I am aware of my own sibling privilege—the taking for granted I did.  I do.  Paying little attention to my sister because she was there to pay little attention to.  Fighting with her because I experienced her as a rival, not an ally.  Letting years go before we saw each other again because she is, has been, will always be there. 

Through Sophia and Kevin, I see us more clearly.  Kevin’s generosity with Sophia—so much younger, hardly a peer—makes me wonder whether I had been too stingy with my own affections. 

We were at our best when we were at play:  writing songs (e.g., “I feel so sad because hay is for horses, not for children.”) and performing disco dances to them; pretending to be two ladies, Joonyurn and Joanyurn who lived in a hotel on the 44^th floor (rooms 4444 and 4443—four was my favorite number); celebrating Barbie’s birthday on a daily basis, wrapping unwanted and broken toys to give back and forth to each other. 

Now, we are still at best when we are at play: crawling into an earthquake tunnel together at the Franklin Institute; teasing each other mercilessly as we vie for the worst score while bowling with the kids; singing pop songs to Sophie as she raises the roof. 

It can be easy to forget this, locking horns over our differences.  Judging or being judged.  Feeling hurt.  Becoming indignant. 

I have Kevin and Sophia to thank for reminding me of the gifts of having a sibling. 

Wanting to Not Want

This post is inspired by This Is Not the Story You Think It Is... by Laura Munson, the choice-of-the-month of new online book club, From Left to Write.

Laura Munson begins her 335-page Summer of Discontent, This Is Not the Story You Think It Is..., with the declaration that, although her husband left the previous night to go to the dump after announcing that he no longer loved her and that he hasn’t returned or called since, she’s “choosing not to suffer.”

She claims epiphany…the end of wanting: “That’s how it finally happens—in a blink.” It is a brave proclamation. A brilliant discovery: one’s happiness should not depend on things beyond one’s control. Only it’s fleeting. Munson suffers throughout the book. She ruminates. She reminisces. She moons. She waits. And she wants.

Freedom from wanting. I have felt the switch—brief moments of transcendence when my perspective has shifted. When I say to myself, I could be triggered by this or I could choose to not feel (responsible, defensive, resentful, etc., etc.). These moments are liberating. But they are ephemeral.

Freedom from wanting is a constant practice of drawing attention to the wanting, the emotion, the things we hold dear and noticing our deep, tortured investment without judgment. Taking the “how interesting” stance. It's at once unbelievably simple and impossibly hard. Particularly when it comes to my daughter, Sophia.

There are so many things I want for her. Safety. Kindness. Joy. Health. Intelligence. Friendship. Most of these things are beyond my control. I can create the conditions but I cannot determine the outcome.

When she trips on bump in the hardwood floor between the kitchen and the living room, falls and bleeds, I suffer . When she is restless with fever and barfs in her crib, I suffer. When she runs up to another child on the playground, asks to play and is rebuffed I suffer. Another parent said to me the other day that she must have these experiences, as we all have had, in order to learn caution, appreciate wellness, understand the distinction between right and wrong.

Ugh. Really? Isn’t there some other way?

But I recognize that torturing myself doesn’t do anyone any good. It doesn’t make her better, less clumsy, more likeable. It doesn’t bring me satisfaction. It is a trap that keeps me from being happy, and may even stand in the way of Sophia’s resilience.

My own, internal dialogue around this is tedious. It does not make for good literature, or even a good essay. It is rumination, not revelation.

I long for a quiet mind. One in which I am not judging/kicking/fighting myself. Wanting not to want. I read something extraordinarily helpful in this pursuit. Change the have to’s to get to’s. I get to soothe my sick child (read: I have a child to care for).

I do not claim to do this well. Or to be able to help others attain personal freedom. But, hey, it’s a start.

Ooops. I did it again.


The book, This Is Not the Story You Think It Is…, was provided to me free of charge by the publisher as part of the former Silicon Valley Moms Group and the new From Left to Write Book Club. I was not paid for this review. See how other moms were inspired by this book here.