Lament for the Big Sister

"Oh, look at Vivi!  Isn't she cute?  Isn't she clever?  Isn't she funny?" 

Those words pour through our house and hover in the air around our heads as Vivi learns a new skill, a new way to thrill and delight us, on a daily basis.  We "Oooh" and "Ahh" over her.  We praise and cuddle her.  Vivi takes up a lot of our time.  She takes up a lot of attention.

 A few weeks ago, I wrote about some of the drama that exists between my two girls as they grow together as sisters.  Vivi, even at fifteen months, can cut a look at Madeline harsh enough to freeze water.  But as it turns out, Madeline has a few looks of her own:

Doesn't her face just seem to be saying, "What the heck is her problem?"

I didn't notice Madeline's facial expression until I looked back at these pictures on my phone several days after they were taken, at which point  Eric and I had a laugh.  Then I looked again, and again, and the picture started to make me sad.  

We captured Madeline's feelings through the lens of my phone, but nobody noticed her in real life because all eyes were on her little sister.  This has become her life as the big sister.  Stories get interrupted.  Games get destroyed.  Her needs sometimes get ignored.

We fawned over Madeline once, perhaps even more so than Vivi since she was the only star in our sky.  We remind her of this, but of course she doesn't remember.

Meanwhile, the list of offenses grows longer.  

Vivi picks up a canister of markers and dumps it across the floor.  We laugh.  Maddie sees the attention, and dumps the canister of crayons, a giant grin in her face.  We scold.  She's a big kid.  She knows better.  

Maddie climbs the banister, "Look what I can do, Mumma!"  I don't mind until her littler sister tries to follow her up.  The game is over, and Madeline is told to get down.  She has to set a good example.  

Maddie wants me to play Play-Dough with her. She's been asking for a week, but there's little time for us to be alone.  We give it a try, with Vivi in my lap.  Two minutes in, Vivi eats a chunk of the pink.  I put her down, and she claws at my leg in tears.  Maddie ends up playing alone.  

Maddie's new magazine arrives in the mail, and she's eager to read it.  Vivi wants to see too, and so I lay the pages on the floor for them to share.  Vivi keeps sitting on the pages so Maddie can't see.  Madeline gets frustrated and head-butts her sister.  Madeline gets in trouble.  

There's a pile of toys that need to be cleaned up before bedtime.  "Vivi played with them too!  She has to help," Madeline argues.  I tell her that Vivi doesn't know how to clean up yet, and that we have to show her how.  Maddie carefully sorts the toys into separate baskets, and as soon as she rounds up all the blocks, her little sisters dumps them back out.  

We had to leave Madeline's field trip to the athletic center early last week to make it to one of Vivi's doctor's appointments.  She missed pajama day last month because Vivi had conjunctivitis and I was worried Madeline would infect the whole school.  She never did end up getting it.  

It's all so unfair being the big sister.  Sometimes I see it.  Sometimes I don't.

There's a delicate balance between ensuring Madeline feels important, and teaching her to make room in her world for others.  Sometimes I manage to make it work, and sometimes I fail miserably.

Besides, as the baby of the family, Vivi has a growing list of injustices too.  That's a post for another day.

I must say, Madeline handles her role as big sister beautifully.  She doesn't complain much.  She doesn't throw tantrums or stomp her feet.  She protests quietly with those secret dirty looks and occasional tattles.  

I just want you to know, Madeline, that I see you, and that I'm trying my best.  

  

We are Loved: We are Hated: Mostly We are Barely Tolerated

Going places used to be no big deal.  I was just another forgettable face in the crowd going about my frozen-pizza-buying business quietly and efficiently.  But now that I have two small children, we can't go anywhere under the radar.  Running errands is an event.  We've arrived everybody, stand back less you get sucked into our maelstrom of drool and budding estrogen!

I popped into Starbucks on a whim this morning because the pumpkin spice latte is back, and I think it's some sort of requirement for young, white, middle-class women like myself to indulge in at least one a week if we want to keep our lady bits thawed for the winter.  So since Madeline was at school, and I was in the same plaza doing errands anyhow, I thought I'd just pop in to satisfy my weekly quota.  (My town does not allow drive-thrus because they like to make parents of young children miserable.)

The barista behind the register threw us a smile, but it was clear that she was not thrilled to see a baby balanced on my hip.  Her words were welcoming, but her eyes read, "Okay, how's this baby and her bitch mother going to make my job harder?"  Her feelings were justified when ten seconds later, my spawn knocked an entire display of gift cards across the floor.

The woman behind the counter sighed wearily, her smile a little more rigid, as I apologized and tried to scoop up handfuls of the spilled cards.

"I have three kids at home," she nodded.  "I know how it goes."  Clearly, this woman was in no mood to deal with my child's shenanigans when she had her hands full cleaning up after her own.  And then she shouted toward the back, "Can someone come pick up these cards that just fell all over the floor?"

A manager poked her head out from behind the counter, a clear "WTF" etched between her eyebrows.

"The baby did it," the barista deadpanned, pointing in my direction.  The manager gave me another exasperated, frozen smile as she went about cleaning up our mess.

As I tried to disappear into the haze of artfully brewed coffee and glowing laptop screens, another customer started cooing over how cute Vivi is.  Then she launched into a history of her own teenage daughter.  My pumpkin spiced latte arrived, and still the woman chatted on about her child and mine.

And so, I find that the world's population can be divided into two main categories:  Strangers who are happy to see my kids and strangers who are most definitely not happy to see my kids.

People who are happy to see my kids include the following: most teen-aged girls, moms of much older children, men in business attire (who very rarely take the time to say anything to us, but smile nonetheless), the elderly, fellow redheads/ former redheads/ relatives of redheads, and grocery store cashiers. 

Meanwhile,  attractive young women on cell phones, moms/dads of young children who are trying to get a break by leaving them at home, grumpy old people, pretentious ass-hats*, and every member of the service industry, except for grocery store cashiers, are usually not happy to see my kids.

(* Special Note:  These people are not ass-hats because they don't like my kids.  I suspect many people view my children the way I view other people's pets.  Sure, that hamster seems nice, but I just don't know him well enough to find him cute and/or particularly interesting.  And that's okay.  These people are ass-hats because their heads are in the wrong place, AND they don't like my kids. This includes the lady who spent twenty minutes inspecting and critiquing every slice of meat she ordered at the deli the other day, but who also gave me a dirty look when Madeline knocked over a package of kaiser rolls.  Move along, lady.  Move along.)

There's also a third category of people who don't notice my kids either way.  This includes the moms/ dads who also have their young children with them because A. They are two busy dealing with their own brood to bother with mine, and B: They think their kids are cuter anyhow (false).  This third category also includes most adolescent males who don't notice much of anything at all.

Here's what a recent trip to the grocery store looked like for me and my girls:

Vivi spent the entire time growling, giggling, pulling Maddie's hair, and kicking her in the head.  Maddie spent the entire time screeching, giggling, and pretending to be angry.  (I know M looks sad in these pictures, but don't be fooled.  She was egging Vivi on the whole time.)

Some people smiled at our chaos.  Some scowled.  Some laughed.  Some threw me looks of absolute horror.  Some were too busy blocking the aisle to notice us standing there at all.  Some stopped to compliment Maddie's hair and talk about their ten redheaded grandchildren.

We're now out of paper towels, but I'd rather let the girls wipe their faces with bits of toilet paper than bother with bringing them to the store.  I hope that brings the people who are not happy to see my kids at least some measure of comfort.  And I won't be going to Starbucks anytime soon either.  I'll drive two towns over to use the drive-thru.    

Parenting, Currently

Bedtime started two and a half hours ago, but nobody is sleeping.  I'm currently sitting on the stairs listening to both girls cry.

Maddie Bear is in our room because she was keeping Vivi awake with all the singing and standing on her head.  Obviously, that is the way one falls asleep.  

And Vivi...sigh...she rages against the crib so hard with those tiny fists.  

We've tried everything else. Tonight, my love, we try letting you just scream yourself tired.  Trust me, it's harder on me than it is on you.  

This is why God, in all His infinite wisdom, created wine.  It's for the mothers.  

P.S.  To the man in my neighborhood with the ridiculously loud motorcycle...WTF, dude.  

P.P.S. I actually wrote this two nights ago.  It's getting better.