(They look pretty angelic in this picture, don’t they?)
You love ’em. You hate ’em. You adore their every move, you hit them with a hairbrush (not that I’d know anything from personal experience about this from my childhood with two sisters…ahem. Sorry, Suzanne.).[sws_pullquote_right] Sometimes it’s just more than anyone can take being the middle child. [/sws_pullquote_right]
Sometimes my girls just can’t take it. The pressure gets to them. The little annoyances of living with each other occasionally just builds up to an aggression that no one but God could hold back. I don’t think my kids are violent, but I suppose if I kept records of the biting incidents, the pinching, hitting, and shoving that has gone on throughout the years, I guess I might change my mind.
Sibling violence is not a pretty thing, but this is exactly what happened with my middle daughter a few weeks back. My husband and I were very relieved that the incident did not involve actually hurting a sibling this time, but it was still pretty bad.
I understand. I really do. She and I share a bond as the middle daughters of our families. Bossy big sister, provoking little sister who gets away with murder because she’s “the baby” (by the way, how long can I use that? My baby will be five this summer.).
Sometimes it’s just more than anyone can take being the middle child.
This was just such a day, and it resulted in a crime of passion in our home. She really could probably claim temporary insanity as her plea. I recognized that look of rage in her eyes as a middle child, and the crime happened and was over with before she even realized what she’d done. It was like an out of body experience.
It reminded me a lot of that stupid pink hairbrush I hurled across the room at my 4-yr-old baby sister way back when…
I don’t even really know what caused the skirmish, to be honest. I would imagine little sister was doing something small, but just irritating enough to make her big sister nuts. That’s all it takes, really. It’s like Chinese water torture. The steady drip, drip, drip of a pesky little sister can result in massive explosions.
All I know is that my middle child went storming out of her room and racing to the playroom. About five seconds later, the deed was done and there was no going back. The wailing began as the little sister became aware of the travesty that had just occurred.
Meet “Big Mama”.
Leighanne has had the miniature version of this puppy dog ever since she was a baby. She loves that puppy, so I was thrilled to find the bigger version last year for Christmas. She was quickly dubbed “Big Mama” because of her massive size.
But on this day that will live in infamy around here, Big Mama met her match at the hands of my enraged child. I’m still not even really sure how she managed it, to be honest. I suppose anger works the same way as adrenaline and gives you super strength in the heat of the moment.
Poor Big Mama. She never even knew what hit her.
A tearful four-year-old brought Big Mama to me in her arms. The poor stuffed animal had been literally ripped apart, stuffing falling out of her like entrails. Her big, plastic brown eyes looked at me mournfully. Her floppy ears drooped.
It was not a pretty sight.
The accused, immediately repentant at seeing the death of an innocent bystander at her hands, tried desperately to make it right. She collected all the stuffing and shoved it back in, but it was just too late for Big Mama. Recovery was a hopeless cause (especially when the mother of this home is completely, 100% ignorant when it comes to sewing repairs). We tried to be sensitive in disposing of the mangled remains. It was all we could do.
We mourned the loss of Big Mama, but none so much as little sister. It was a good lesson for both of them, though.
Pesky little sister learned what the term “the straw that broke the camel’s back” actually means.
Melodramatic middle sister learned what “that’s coming out of your piggy bank” actually means.
We’re still searching for a Big Mama look alike. Somehow I think she would be pleased to know she served this family not just as a snuggly toy, but as the object in an object lesson. It was a wonderful life she lived, but a noble death she died.
Ah, yes, siblings. Wouldn’t life be boring without ’em?
What’s your sibling story? Please tell me I’m not the ONLY one who threw hairbrushes at my sister.
Wife. Mom. Dispenser of sippy cups and band-aids. Sharon Webber is the mother of three young girls and proudly totes her many titles. She's your every day mom, just working to keep the chaos under some kind of control. She loves to write about their ordinary, yet extraordinary, adventures as a family of five at her blog Mommy Mayhem. Laugh with her...or at her...and reassure yourself you're not the only one on this crazy ride called motherhood.