There are two children
in my house who bear a
striking resemblance to my
daughters. They are adorable,
smart and energetic.
Like my daughters, they
can spend hours drawing
and coloring or watching
DVDs about princesses and
adventures. They even answer
to my daughters’
names.
And yet, I ca’t help but
be suspicious about their
true identity because these
girls have been nice to each
other.
Mornings around Schoolhouse
Farm are always difficult.
There is only one
bonafide morning person in
our home, and that’s Bee.
The rest of us do what we
can — Papa at a determined
pace, me in a fog of
overnight caffeine withdrawal,
and Posey with either
a mischievous clown
face or an outright scowl.
For her part, Bee doesn’t
have much patience with
people who aren’t morning
people.
So I was dreading the
first day of school just a
bit.
In her excitement to
start the new school year,
Bee had planned her ensemble
down to the smallest
detail, and declared the
night before that she was
going to wake up early, get
dressed immediately and
make her own breakfast
``because that is what first
graders do.’’ (Clearly, she
hasn’t met a lot of high
school students.)
Her unmitigated enthusiasm
for school is wonderful,
don’t get me wrong.
And her self-sufficiency is
even more admirable.
But in a house full of
non-morning people, it’s
wise to keep the one morning
person occupied.
I set my own alarm extra
early so I could be on
top of my game. I predicted
that Bee would be up and
ready to board the bus approximately
one hour before
it arrived. That would
give her plenty of time to
get antsy and look for a diversion
to fill her spare
time - something like parroting
her little sister’s conversation
(``Stop copying
me!’’) or reminding her father
and me of some vague
quasi-promise we may or
may not have made three
years ago whose fulfillment
has become urgently and
immediately necessary
(``Remember that time you
said it would be fun to go
back to that museum in
Philadephia? Remember?
Remember when you said
that? When are we going to
do that?’’).
But that’s not how the
morning progressed, and
that’s what makes me so
suspicious.
Bee was sitting calmly
at the kitchen island eating
her breakfast when Posey
woke and, still rubbing her
sleepy eyes, recounted a
dream about Bee and a castle
and a knight who saved
her.
``You tell the best stories,’’
Bee said, in one of the
few spontaneous, genuine
compliments she has ever
given her little sister.
Moments later, Posey
told Bee she was beautiful.
Then Bee helped stir
Posey’s oatmeal and kindly
passed it to her.
Then Posey said, ``Thank
you.’’
Then a sparkly unicorn
flew down from the top of
Panther Mountain and
beckoned us to ride her far
away to a land where eating
chocolate makes you
rich and buying shoes
makes you smart!
Okay, so that last part
didn’t happen, but it is no
less fantastical than what
did transpire.
Having grown up with
only a brother, I have no direct
experience with sisterhood.
I ask a lot of questions
to adults and children
who are old enough to be a
little reflective. The answers
span the full spectrum.
It got easier as we got
older.
It got so much harder
when we were in middle
school and high school.
They’ll probably always
be friends, like my sister
and me.
If their relationship survives
past college, they
might have a chance at beginning
a friendship.
One young friend with
keen analytical skills said
of her relationship with her
younger sister: ``We are
closest friends, but we can
be the worst enemies.’’
I don’t doubt that for a
minute. Girls can have a
rare talent for being hurtful
to other girls, and being
close with someone means
they know all your weaknesses,
and you know
theirs.
The challenge is to teach
your daughters to lift each
other up, cheer each other
up and, when the time arrives,
back each other up.
And if at all possible,
teach one of them to make
coffee.
Elizabeth Trever Buchinger
knows you are, but
what am I? You can connect
with her at www.moremindfulfamily.
wordpress.
org.
