The two eye the last tidbit of food hungrily, greedily. Stomachs rumble, tastebuds water. Each, trying to read the mind of the other, keeps her own eyes hidden, lest they hold clues to her intent. Almost simultaneously, two arms reach out and grab, each laying claim to the nourishment.##M:[more]## There is a tug-of-war, mild at first, then increasing in intensity, as each yanks, as if this morsel holds the promise of survival, not just her own, but that of future generations.
Let go! It’s mine! I got it first! You got more! MMMMoooooooooooom!!!
The two are not monkeys, rats, or lab subjects helping scientists discover solutions to the problems of world hunger, malnutrition, better diet, and nutrition for all mankind. The two are my own two daughters, who vie for everything from the last piece of pizza to who walked the dog last, to what song should be played on the stereo, to who should or should not have to help unload the dishwasher. Compromise? What does that mean? Take turns? No way. Share? With others, yes. With my sister? Why should I?
Having grown up with two brothers, I always longed for a sister of my very own. Someone who would share my deepest, darkest secrets, someone with whom I could share an entire wardrobe, doubling my clothing count, someone with whom I could dish about our parents, our boyfriends, our friends, life and love. We would be like twins, born at different times, but alike in everything else. United in heart and mind, double the fun.
So when I had one daughter three years after the next, I was delighted. “Best Friends” reads the caption for a collage I made of the baby and her big sister. I should have known better. When baby gifts starting coming in, mine, it’s mine, big sister declared, trying to squeeze her foot down into a newborn sleeper. Mommy, change my diaper too, requested the toddler, holding a doll-sized Pampers aloft. When I told Katie to kiss the baby for the Christmas picture, she licked her instead, setting the baby screaming, face squeezed up like a hair scrunchy.
My friends all tell me their children fight with each other. I guess I should be glad mine are not rolling around on the floor, throwing punches, pulling hair. I know it happens. I’ve seen it. Mine eschew the physical for the more subtle but highly effective psychological approach. Bribery, threat, intimidation. They know all the tactics of getting under their sister’s skin.
I don’t understand it, I tell the girls. You both lived under my heart for nine months, not at the same time, but in the same space. You share the same genes. You live under the same roof, eat the same food, and have the same parents. You’ve never known the true meaning of hunger, or want. So why do you have to fight? Often truly over nothing? There are some days when conflicts seem to be invented for the sheer fun of it. Or just because they know it pushes mom’s buttons. Maybe that’s just it. It’s their way of getting attention.
Sometimes when they’ve pushed me to the brink, I get into my morbid mode. God forbid, I tell them, that one of you needs a blood transfusion or an organ donation. Your sister is the person most likely to be able to do that for you. I take it one step further. Someday, I say, when dad and I are no longer here you will have each other. (This always wins the Oh Mom! look of exasperation) You not only share the same genes, I tell them, but you were raised with the same values, the same outlook on life, and you will share the same memories. So, to paraphrase Rodney King, why can’t y’all just get along????????!!!!????
And so, in my own mind, I have developed a theory about sibling rivalry. It all goes back to the days when the caveman roamed the earth, when just staying alive was a daily challenge. The hunter father couldn’t be guaranteed to bring home enough daily kill to feed everybody in the cave, so the possibility that somebody might go hungry was very real. You had to be willing to fight for scraps of food in those days, because if you didn’t you might not get any. If you did not fight, you could slowly starve, wither away, and die while your sibling plumped up like a pudding.
So just as it’s hard-wiring that a hunting dog, like a golden retriever, no matter how well it is trained, will bolt across the street in pursuit of a rabbit or squirrel, it’s hard-wiring that siblings will fight over such basic necessities as food, love, and attention. Even the not so basic necessities such as music, clothes, and privileges are fair fighting game as well. Perhaps it’s practice for the real world, a friendly boot camp to remind them that it’s a cruel world out there, and the competition starts right here right now where there’s a referee ( mom ) if things get out of hand.
Although I have to admit: As they’re getting older, it’s getting better. For example, the other day at the mall they ganged up on me to buy an overpriced article of clothing by promising they would share it, essentially getting twice the use for the price of one. It backfired a bit when they started the day by arguing over who would get to wear it first, but I’m willing to overlook that for the promise of more sibling cooperation moving forward. But then, I’ve always been a dreamer. We’ll see.
The Suburban Mom has created a “blog” featuring some of her favorite columns that have appeared in the WW-P News over the last year and a half. Find it at suburbanmom.typepad.com. She welcomes comments and suggestions for future column ideas.
