Sibling Rivalry ...

I was new to motherhood when bickering started between Tony and Patti, and since I'd never heard the term "sibling rivalry" I called their activity fighting. My kids fought. It was nothing to be concerned about. All kids fought.

I handled the situation in a no-nonsense manner.

"Patti, for the love of God, stop pestering him!"
"Tony, If you hit her again I'm gonna wear you out!"

My method worked. Three-year-old Patti retreated to her rocking chair ... sweet face looking innocent ... busy mind planning future attacks on brother's property ... and five-year-old Tony refrained from hitting his sister when I was looking.

I might have pulled it off ... kept a semblance of order ... maintained control ... but just when Tony started school, leaving Patti to claim "only child" status for a few hours each day and me to enjoy the peaceful atmosphere I always knew existed but had never experienced, here came, at two year intervals, Carmen, Karen and Honey Gail.

I soon learned more than I ever wanted to know about sibling rivalry. I didn't have to refer to chapter twenty nine, volume two of Dr. Spock either. I just knew. Those precious baby girls peeking through the bars of their cribs were dedicated, early on, to wiping each other off the face of the earth.

Building blocks stacked high by the careful hands of one sister were brought crashing down by the careless foot of another, causing serious hair-pulling to come into play.

A ragged dress belonging to one doll was found to be covering the nakedness of another doll, causing an outbreak of kicking and scratching between doll owners.

Somebody's toe accidentally drifted across the invisible line which divided the back seat of our car neatly down the middle, and the person whose territory had been invaded bit the offending toe. And bit and bit and kept on biting. If I hadn't pulled off the road and thrown myself across the back of the driver's seat and into the raging battle, one screaming victim would have required stitches.

My darlings fought.

Rules of combat were established. I modified those rules daily. Enforced a few. Threw out a bunch. Tattling was high on the forbidden list. Tattling might get the guilty a spanking but it would get the tattler a spanking too. No tattling was allowed. My children carefully weighed the pleasure of getting a sister in trouble against the pain of getting their own bottoms spanked. Very little tattling occurred.

Fake tattling, however, was alive and well at our house.

From the living room window, I watched five-year-old Karen remove herself from a fun-game-gone-sour in the front yard. She dusted off her skirts and headed for the kitchen door ... self-righteously yelling over her shoulder, "I'm telling Mama!"

I remained very still and waited to be told.

Back door clicked carefully open. Back door clicked quietly shut. The child never took her hand off the door knob as she silently counted the number of seconds she deemed suitable for reporting a crime in progress. It didn't take long. Back door re-opened and the injured-party retraced her steps to the front yard, hollering, " I told! And you know what Mama said?"

I waited by the window, along with her sisters waiting in the yard, to find out what I had said.

"Mama said if you didn't give that to me this minute, she was gonna come out here and blister your bottoms! Mama said it was gonna be the worst blistering you ever got in your whole stinking lives!"

I devised a plan to legalize true tattling and cut down on fake tattling. I would hold court every Wednesday night after dinner. I handed out pencils and paper and instructed my daughters to quietly (quietly was the key word here) list every crime committed against them all through the week, and come to the dinner table each Wednesday night with list in hand, prepared to air all grievances. The first week was a nightmare. They brought stacks of papers. They were, I mean, prepared. I heard cases and handed down sentences for hours.

Next day I added an amendment to my plan ... no court session would last longer than thirty minutes. Lists immediately dropped from one hundred mild grumblings to five critical complaints:

"Karen hit my arm bone on Monday and it felt broke and I held my hand over it all day Tuesday to keep my blood from running out."

"Karen, did you hit Honey Gail?"

"Yes, Mama, but only after she pulled my hair and called me Skunkhead."

"Honey, did you pull Karen's hair?"

"I might have pulled it a little bit but only because all her red crayolas were broke and she borrowed the only good one I had and then she wouldn't give it back when I asked nicely and there was a bird sittin' on the fence and I wanted to color him red because redbirds are my favorite ..."

"Next Case, please."

"Karen kicked my leg."

"Karen, did you kick Carmen's leg?"

"Mama, she was sprawled out across the middle of my bed with her legs hanging off, reading. I told her to get off my bed and go read on her own bed and she didn't, so I kicked one of her legs so she'd know I meant business, and she came up off my bed real fast and threw her book at me and then she beat me up before I had a chance to run or anything."

"Carmen, did you beat Karen up?"

"She deserved it, Mama! It was a clear case of self-defense. I'm willing to forget the whole thing if she is."

"Next case."

"Mama, Karen put a gold star on her chart without brushing her teeth."

"Are you interfering in Karen's business, Honey Gail?"

"Well ... I thought you'd want to know she just swished her toothbrush under running water, slapped a star by her name and took off out of the bathroom with dirty teeth."

"Honey Gail, you're on dangerous ground here. Did you suffer in any way because Karen neglected her teeth? No, you did not. Therefore, it has nothing to do with you. This is a private matter between Karen and me."

"Next!"

Today, more than 35 years later, I have a sampling of those lists taped on my laundry room wall.

The only thing stronger than my children's homicidal tendencies was their fierce loyalty to each other.

If one child fell ill, all fighting ceased as the healthy went into their Florence Nightingale modes and hovered over the wounded. Living room sofa was turned into a sick bed and loving sisters brought pillows, blankets, Kleenex and orange juice for the sibling they'd hated yesterday and would hate again tomorrow but loved dearly right now because she was so sick.

Four-year-old Karen was having a few worrisome bumps removed from the bottom of her feet. She lay bravely on the examining table. I stood at one end, smoothing her hair, whispering encouragement, nervously making a nuisance of myself. Honey Gail, age two, toddled around the room checking out chair legs and waste baskets.

The pediatrician, after first promising it wouldn't hurt, picked up one small foot and began the procedure. Karen knew instantly the doctor had lied and she began to scream. Honey Gail ran to the farthest wall, huddled down near the floor, clapped both hands over her ears and waited until the doctor paused in his work and Karen paused in her crying, at which time Honey launched herself from the wall and attacked the man's leg. She pounded with both fists. She bit. She kicked. She yelled. She wiped her small runny nose on his pants leg. Brushing her aside as though she were no more than a troublesome mosquito, the doctor resumed his work which caused Karen to resume hollering which sent poor little Honey scurrying back to the wall again. Over and over again Honey Gail tore herself away from the safety of that wall and came bravely forward to fight for her sister's life.

One summer day, seven-year-old Karen dragged herself through the back door with the help of Carmen on one side and Honey on the other. She could barely stand. Her leg seemed to have sustained the worst damage, I thought, as my practiced eye swept over the scrapes and scratches that covered her body.

"What happened to Karen?" I demanded, as I grabbed the first-aid supplies which remained always within easy reach at our house.

"She accidentally ran her bike into the mailbox," Carmen looked me straight in the eye.

"Yes, the mailbox." Honey agreed.

" mailbox ..." moaned Karen.

Years later, my grown children sat around the dinner table at family reunions and howled with laughter as they told and retold the rest of the story.

On the blind side of our house, where I couldn't see what was going on, Karen had thrown together a makeshift ramp. At the end of the ramp she lined up three or four lawn chairs. She then announced to all neighbor children that she would perform her Evel Knievel trick. She would ride her bike real fast down the hill, across the lawn, up the ramp and sail through the air over the lawn chairs before landing smoothly on the grass. Watch everybody! Watch!

The first part went according to plan. Down the hill, across the lawn and up the ramp .. But, somewhere between the ramp and the landing, things began to go seriously wrong for Evel aka Karen. She bumped, banged, scraped and dented her entire body before she accidentally ran her bike into the mailbox.

Our new house was built with two spacious sunny bedrooms and a full bath upstairs for Carmen, Karen and Honey. (Tony and Patti had grown up and gone away by then) The original plan was for Karen and Honey to share a room. That plan bit the dust before paint dried on the walls, and set in motion a nomadic lifestyle for Honey. Every time Karen threw her out she trudged across the landing to beg space from Carmen. When Carmen evicted her, she returned to Karen. Back and forth. Back and forth. Once I found her sitting at the top of the landing with all her belongings piled high and both doors closed against her. Homeless. My accidental discovery worked to her advantage. Since she didn't tattle she was free to sit back and enjoy the war I waged on her two heartless sisters. I don't remember how that scene played itself out. Maybe I threw Karen and Carmen out in the woods to sleep with the bears and gave Honey the luxury of two rooms all to herself. No, I didn't do that. Honey wouldn't have lasted fifteen minutes on her own. She'd have packed a survival kit and gone out to join the enemy.

The girls grew to be teenagers in that upstairs world. Toys vanished and clothes took center stage. Closets overflowed with items to be borrowed, traded, stolen and fought over.

Carmen owned a tight skirt with a slit from mid-calf to knee. First time she came downstairs dressed for a date, wearing that skirt, her sisters were walking close to the side of Carmen with the opening, preventing me from seeing that Carmen's entire leg from ankle to panty line was now on dazzling display, both sisters lovingly edged her out the front door.

Next time I saw that skirt in my laundry room I found, much to my horror, that the stitches had accidentally come undone and, Merciful God, the slit was way up to mid-thigh. Maybe higher than mid-thigh. Oh, how embarrassing for my innocent daughter. I hoped nobody saw. Oh, Dear, I hurried straight to my sewing machine where I stitched and double stitched that side seam back where it belonged..

The skirt was a favorite garment. It got handed around from one sister to another. Occasionally, it went out on dates. I never exactly saw the slit as it went out the door. Sisters always seemed to be clinging so lovingly close to each other anytime that skirt was in motion.

Again and again, after being worn in public, the skirt reached my laundry room with a slit up to there. Again and again, I sewed the slit back into place.

Finally, I threw it out. The threads simply wouldn't hold.

Years later, grown children sat around my holiday table and howled with laughter as they described how one sister would be getting ready for a date ... showering ... doing hair and makeup ... while two sisters were frantically picking out threads, opening the slit back up to there for the lucky girl who'd be wearing their favorite garment that night.

Sibling rivalry. Sibling loyalty. I've lived through both extremes.

It's been quite a trip.