Sisters,Sisters! Never have there been….

Evidently on a cold winter’s day in the mid-1950s my sister’s life was ruined. At least that is what I have been told for as long as I can remember.  Everything was perfect and then never again. It began when she was taken away from Ding Dong School on television to speak to our mother about my arrival. I became the constant interruption, thorn in her side, reason for all unhappiness and a life thwarted.

I believed it for over sixty years. So maybe both of us were thwarted for different reasons.

I am four years, two weeks and one day younger than my older sister. That is a big enough difference to be noticeable. As the younger sibling it is a gap that never seems as though you will catch up. You will never be that old or get to do those things. Until you do.

I often thought if we had been closer in age, it might have been a different relationship, but then I talk to my friends with sisters that are Irish twins or only two years apart and the issues seem to persist. So, it is not age, but the fact that all of us are born with our own personalities, challenges, values and perceptions.

Our situation was unusual in that we grew up living in hotels. The ones our father managed.  We also moved every year to two years until I was nine. So, the only consistent playmate, friend, contemporary was my sister.

I love her. She has been my role model, my aspiration, my protector. As a child, I longed to be as smart and clever.

Viewed from my perspective I appeared her enemy, annoyance and bane of her existence.  I was also her cast for the various productions she created. Musicals were her go to and the choreography was masterful, even if my execution of it was wanting.

In my eyes she was brilliant. No matter what I learned, she already knew and ten times more. Sadly, it was not until I was in my 20s that it dawned on me that perhaps the reason she appeared to be so much smarter was that she had a four year jump on learning.  It has never changed my view of her intelligence.

She taught me to read when I was three and a half. It came about because I asked her to read me a story and she was horrified to learn I was unable to read it myself. I thought it was generous and patient of her, but maybe it was simply self-serving so I would leave her alone.

When I was four she informed me that I was adopted. That the police had brought me and that was why I liked navy blue and brass buttons.  After all, everyone said she looked just like Dad and I did not look like anyone, not even the dog who was a chocolate poodle.  I said it wasn’t true, but she insisted. 

“I’m going to ask Mom.”

“Go ahead, but she will just lie to you because she feels sorry for you that your parents didn’t want you,” was her reply.

I ran off to find Mom who was quite reassuring about my parentage and came back with a smug face to hurl the denial into my sister’s face.

“I told you she’d lie,” was her response.

Had not thought of that. It was also pointed out that there were no pictures of Mom pregnant with me, only with her. This all made sense to me because I did not then know the reality of the second child having fewer photos and incomplete baby books.

My sister and I had the same mother, but vastly different experiences.  My sister saw her as negating her feelings and difficult.  I saw her as vivacious, fun, comforting and safe. Mom thought life was an adventure and that all the ups and downs were simply memories and stories to save for a future time when they could be recounted and laughed about.  She appeared to not care what people thought about her and was a risk taker.

When some calamity occurred Mom would do her play-by-play of:

 “Isn’t this fun?”

“What an adventure?”

“We’ve never done this before!!”

“This will make a great story.”

I would look around and not see the fun or adventure. My sister did not see it either. I would think there was something wrong with me because I could not see it. My sister insisted that Mom was negating her feelings yet again.

I was my mother’s favorite.  We all knew it. It was not a secret. I worked hard for the position.  I did what I was told with a little or no resistance. I wanted to make her happy.

 Actually, I wanted to make everyone happy as there seemed to be an air of unhappiness or anger or sadness in the house coming from my father, sister and sometimes Nana.  It often appeared that my sister just wanted to cry and argue.  I never got it.  I never understood what was so upsetting to her.  The same things were being said or asked of me and none of it seemed hard or cruel or oppressive.

Do well in school.

Be polite.

Be funny.

Carry on interesting conversations with adults.

Love to read.

Try new things. 

We lived in a hotel with room service and maid service and beautiful surroundings. There were no chores. Our laundry came back on hangers with plastic over it.  It was not hard.

I wanted to be my sister’s favorite as well.  I just wanted her to like me. She did sometimes, and we can laugh until we cry as we share the Irish sense of humor and appreciation of the bizarre. Then out of nowhere, it seemed, I would be getting yet another lecture about how I had done something that had again ruined her life, hurt her feelings or been cruel. I rarely saw the slights, injustice or humiliation she was experiencing.  

My indoctrination was to try to fix it. Try to fill the hole inside of my sister that saw everything through lack, attack and victimhood. Mom said the same off-hand and direct things to me that she said to her, but evidently these salvos did not land with the same impact that they did for her. I would tell her a story about some event and Mom’s reaction and then I would have to hear a lecture from her about how Mom should have reacted and what she should have said. I did not get it. Mom was reasonably consistent in her reaction. She was not interested in “might have been’s” or “shoulda/coulda/wouldas.” She was a town without pity. She did not believe there was any value in wallowing in sadness or humiliation. It happened. Does it need to be fixed? If yes, fix it. If no, stop talking about it.  “Say it once and don’t say it again,” was her mantra.

“Life is about choices. Remember that and it is always best to choose laughter over tears.”

“Someday you will laugh about this.”

If you knew Mom, you knew that this was her go to every time.  My sister kept thinking that this time she would get a different reaction. She did not and it continued to annoy and break her heart.

To this day, my sister will tell you that she cried every day as she came home from high school because she had to come home to us.  First, I do not believe and never have that it was every day but knowing her I can believe she cried. I still have no idea what was so horrible. As I mentioned, we lived in a beautiful resort, ate food cooked by European chefs, traveled to Europe and had no chores other than homework.  One would think that you could get over it. Guess again.

What I now realize and am working on is that I willingly internalized my sister’s unhappiness and believed that since my birth had ruined her life, it was my job to fix it. I did not have to do that; I chose to take it on. Intellectually I got it was not true in my 30s, but it took me sixty years to realize that it is not nor never was mine to do.