Ages & Stages: Look at Little Sister

 By Elizabeth Esse Kahrs

 
Hot, sticky August brings back memories of the road trips I’d take with my family from New York to Minnesota, every summer—two and one-half days of traveling in our 1969 Ford Indian fire red, wood trimmed, Country Squire station wagon. I’d sit trapped in the back seat with my brother, both of us sweaty in our tank tops and shorts, our slippery legs punctuated with pinholes from the black vinyl seats.

It wasn’t one of those wagons with a third seat, so my brother and I were left to vie for space in the back. Because he was taller, his long arms and legs invaded my side. I’d try to sleep compact, with my knees curled up, head pressed against the door. But I had to be on guard: my brother had discovered yet another way to torture me, dangling his sweaty, glistening armpit above my bare knee.

My son and daughter are the exact same age difference as my brother and I; it is like history repeating itself. I find myself watching their interactions and wondering if my brother and I acted the same way. I get the sense that my kids are closer than we were, primarily because my kids haven’t grown up in a neighborhood—for the most part, they’ve had to rely on each other for play.

Luckily, my son has yet to discover the power of his armpit, but he has discovered plenty of other effective ways to torture his little sister. Nothing too bad, of course, but at the age of thirteen, he has come to fully embrace his big-brotherness. Since my husband was a big brother, and I was a little sister, we often view our children’s interactions quite differently. When I see my son do something to my daughter, I’m more likely to defend her and ignore any wrongdoing on her part. Similarly, my husband tends to view my son’s actions as “no big deal.”

Sometimes, I suspect I’m not being fair. But my son is bigger than my daughter is—and my daughter is littler than my son is—and round and round it goes in my head. Sometimes I have to wonder if I’m really defending my daughter—or if I’m defending the me of so long ago.

I’ll do my best to guard against this bias. I’m a mother, after all, it is my job to be fair. But one thing’s for sure. If my son ever whips out that sweaty armpit, he’s going down.