The sibling thing will always leave me flummoxed.
To recap, briefly, for those who don’t know the backstory: I was an only child. My husband, who has an older sister, and I knew that if we had one child, we’d have two because it just seemed like the best idea to have a spare.
We briefly toyed with having three — but came to our senses just after we’d had the Boy. The idea of shifting from man-on-man defense to zone was overwhelming. Still is, frankly.
Barring miraculous acts beyond our control, we will remain a family of four.
But I will never understand why there must be so much bickering between the youngest two. A day without bickering would be like a day without oxygen.
The Diva loves to complain about how I don’t understand what it’s like to have an irritating little brother who goes out of his way to ruin everything she could ever find enjoyable. Yes, she can be a little hyperbolic. I wonder where she gets it?
The Boy mostly ignores her, which frustrates her more than any response ever could. He gets his licks in more subtly by touching her stuff or leaving her socks where the dog can get them.
(And speaking of the dog, we now entered her bratty adolescent stage where she can’t resist snarfling up any human object and running around the house with it in her mouth because she knows she shouldn’t. This includes more socks than I can even count, ditto underpants, my left slipper, and a mini-stuffed hippopotamus who makes a rude sound when you squeeze him. The most memorable was a toy light that slips onto your finger and flashes when you turn it on. Somehow, she bit it in just the right way to make the light strobe, illuminating the inside of her mouth. It was like chasing a dog through a rave. Next time, I’ll break out the glowsticks.)