Raising Sisters, Not Rivals

When Megan was born a mere fourteen months after Elizabeth , I was elated. Sisters! And almost the same age—not like me, popping up to everyone’s surprise when my brothers and sisters were nearly teens. I pictured them holding hands on the walk to the first day at school, sharing nervous giggles backstage at dance recitals, giving reassuring smiles to each other at the first notes of the Wedding March. But soon enough my mind began muttering, surrounding my joy with insecurity. Raising daughters is tricky. They don’t just adore their mothers forever unconditionally, the way sons do. If they turn out all wrong, or even slightly wrong, they’ll blame me. (As a daughter, I felt certain of this.) Before I was even out of the hospital I began to worry about my little girls’ relationship with each other. My own sister came to help me after Megan was born. I asked her how I could avoid the seemingly unavoidable rivalry that so often crops up between siblings born so close together. I figured she was an authority on the subject. She and my other sister are only eleven months apart. What I was really asking was, “How can I make sure they don’t have the same relationship you two have?”

Her advice was quick. “Just don’t ever compare them to each other.”

My sisters love one another, of course, but there has been a certain amount of tension that has manifested over the years. In the mildest form it shows up as sarcasm and anger expressed in jest; at other times as emotional war.

I’ve followed her advice for the past three years, but it has not always been as easy as I thought it would be. Though born close together, my daughters’ personalities couldn’t be more different. There is the temptation to say, “See, Megan picks up her toys without being asked,” or “Elizabeth is a big girl. She doesn’t throw a fit in swimming class.” But I remind myself there is damage those comparisons could do that I wouldn’t be aware of for years. I want them have all the good things I imagine for them, but nothing more than a best friend who also happens to be a sister. That’s not to say that there won’t be times when one is resentful of the other’s accomplishments:



But most often they are kind to each other, even when they don’t know I’m listening (“Your dress is beautiful, Elizabeth.” “I love how you colored that dog purple, Megan.”).
And every once in a while I catch them in the act of spontaneous sharing:




Those are the times I think maybe—just maybe—I’m doing something right.

- Tiffany

Mommy's Lil' Art Critics

Today, just for fun and because I’m sick of struggling with Bendaroos, I asked Elizabeth and Megan to analyze Jackson Pollock’s 1948 painting Number 1 (left).

“What does this picture look like to you?” I hold out my Art Appreciation book and both girls crowd in to take a look.

Elizabeth replies, in true Elizabeth fashion, “Garbage.”

Megan chimes in with, “A tree.” Wow. I get that.

“Sticks? It’s sticks!” Elizabeth is hunched over the book, staring intently at the brown and red and white and tan and black scribbled, dribbled mess.

“What do you feel like when you look at this picture? Happy or sad?”

“Happy.” Elizabeth.

“Sad.” Megan.

“Why happy?”

“I don’t know,” Elizabeth says and shrugs. “I just like it.”

“Why sad?”

“Because,” Megan says, finding it silly to state the obvious. “Garbage doesn’t make anyone happy.”

So. In spite of all our best efforts to weave symbolism into our work and include levels of complexity that will stir emotions, we run the risk of people liking our creation “just because.” And some will just think it’s garbage. Sort of takes the pressure off.

“Garbage makes Oscar happy!” Elizabeth can hardly finish her sentence, she’s giggling so much. They bust up and forget all about Jackson Pollock.

That’s the trouble with trying to have an art discussion with preschoolers. They always bring everything back to Sesame Street.

- Tiff