This last Spring Break, because of differing school schedules my family ended up taking two different planes to get back home from our vacation. At first this had me worried: I’m almost pathological about my need to hang onto everyone’s boarding pass for them at the airport (if you’ve ever been present when my kids have lost theirs in the three steps it takes to get from the sitting area to the gate, you’d understand why). And so the thought of not having all four of them clutched in my sweaty little palm until we were actually on the plane made me quite anxious. Or at least it did, before I had spent the four hours prior to our arrival at the Miami airport sitting in a car with this very same family, and then, suddenly, the idea of taking two different planes didn’t sound quite so bad; in fact, if I hadn’t been so determined to find the nearest bar, I probably would’ve looked into changing it to three.
I have met people who say their children don’t fight with each other. Truth be told, I always feel a little sad for these folks. Sad because obviously their children’s fighting has become so extreme that they ended up suffering a mental break, and are now living in a fantasy world where children don’t bicker. Either that or they have opted for the blue pill. Because, come on: everyone’s kids fight.
Hopefully not all of the time. Hopefully not to the point of police intervention (I was going to say medical intervention, but I know of too many people whose “how I got this scar” stories start with “my brother and I were fighting.”) But they most definitely fight. This is just one of those irrefutable laws of parenting, along with “the diaper will always fail at the worst possible moment” and “other people’s kids sound better than mine in Christmas letters.” The fact is, if you have a sibling, you will fight with them. Because siblings are a pain.
Whenever my children complain to me about the fact that I saddled them with a sibling I always explain to them that I did it for them, so that they would one day be better able to handle difficult individuals. (And also so that they can have someone who can corroborate their stories of neglect, torment and abuse when they are telling their “why my mother was the worst” stories. These stories usually come about three drinks after the “how I got this scar” stories.)
As sarcastic as my explanation may seem, there is still a grain of truth to it—I do think having a sibling prepares you for the worst in people. And, believe it or not, that’s a good thing. Because, eventually, at some point in our lives, we are all going to run into someone who is really, truly, dreadful. (And perhaps, at least according to the people around us, maybe even be that person ourselves.) At that point it is always nice to have a point of reference to compare their awfulness to; a bell curve, if you will, where you can place their dreadful behavior. And, if you were lucky enough to grow up with a sibling, you will always be able to place their behavior right smack in the middle of your particular bell.
Co-worker stealing your lunch? Not nearly as bad as the time your sister ate the last piece of birthday cake—on your birthday. Neighbor blocked your driveway? Remember when your brother parked his car behind yours and then left town for a month with the keys?
And, of course, there’s always the time when you fought so much on your vacation that your mom put the two of you on two different planes.