Sisters. You love them. You hate them. Those who never grow up with sisters don’t get it. My mom doesn’t get it. When my sisters and I used to fight, she’d tell us how she’d always wished she’d had a sister. She grew up with four brothers and though she claims she wishes she’d grown up with a sister, she’s full of crap. She wouldn’t want to have shared her room or had to compete with another girl for her Papa’s attention. She was the only girl and she loved it. She could be girly if she wanted and she could be a tomboy and break all the rules when she wanted and she absolutely loved it. She has no idea what it means to have sisters or to be a sister.
Being a sister is tough. You have to share stuff. Sometimes, you share a room. Sometimes, your sisters take your clothes, make-up, food, and accessories without asking. They invade your space, read your diaries, and listen in on your phone conversations. They tease you about your first crush. They tell your parents when you do something wrong. Basically, they are out to make your life a living hell and they don’t feel bad about it. In fact, when you become adults and you talk to your sisters about what happened back then, they only laugh about the pain and frustration they caused you. Remorse and true empathy is a rarity in sister relationships.
At some point, my sisters and I grew up and the three of us got over our petty fights. Ok. I just lied. We still fight and usually we fight about the dumb stuff. On occasion, we fight about the big stuff but I think as we’ve gotten older thus more stubborn in our ways, I think we realized that it’s better to fight over the petty than the big stuff. The big stuff causes too much damage. Why would I want to fight over politics and religion when I could argue about which Jane Austen book is best and whether it’s better to add sugar and cinnamon to homemade applesauce? The latter two topics are exponentially more interesting, right?
My brother Ben has two daughters. The sisters are four years apart in age but they are lucky to share a room. My mom told me a story about when she visited them at their house last month. It goes something like this. Madelyn invited my mom to go hang out in the girls’ room before they ate dinner. Margaret asked Madelyn for some more lotion and took a few pumps from the pink bottle. She did this a few times before they headed to the kitchen for dinner. After dinner, Margaret asked for a little more lotion and she said, “No Margaret, you’ve had enough!”
Their mother looked at Madelyn and asked, “Are you talking about the pretend lotion?” Madelyn turned red. The pink bottle was empty. It didn’t matter though. She was tired of sharing her imaginary lotion with her punky little sister.
I was the little sister. I think Shelli and Shanna deprived me of imaginary lotion on more than one occasion. I would say I’m over it, but let’s be honest, I’m going to use their neglectful behavior as ammunition when they pick on me in adulthood. That’s what we do. Little sisters are the best. It’s the big sisters that cause all the trouble!
And now… for a few photos.
Here I am with my big sister Shanna.
And here I am with my big sister Shelli.
And of course, here at the silly sisters Margaret and Madelyn. (Let it be known that this photo was taken by my mom on her iPhone and then I made it into an Instagram.)
Until next time,