THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, August 21, 1994 TAG: 9408210035
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: ELIZABETH SIMPSON
LENGTH: Medium: 66 lines
One of the first words my daughter said was her older sister's name, which I thought was sweet.
Gracie chortled it when she woke in the morning, when her sister was out of sight more than 15 minutes, and during good-night kisses.
Then, months later, she came running to me with her first full sentence: ``Taylor Rose is mean.''
She announced this with all the angst an 18-month-old can muster. Brow furrowed, lower lip stuck out, eyes that said ``What are you going to do to fix that?''
I figured she had either changed her mind between first words and first sentence, or she'd been trying to tell me something right from the start.
Being a sister myself, I should know better. Sisterhood is a love-hate proposition. I have loved and hated my older sister from way back.
I hated that she had already done everything by the time I did it. Walking, skating, graduating - there was nothing I could do that she hadn't mastered. I received her hand-me-downs with an upturned nose, loudly telling anyone who would listen, ``It's not new, it's my sis-ter's.'' As if setting a match to it would be its best fate.
I bristled at her bossiness. And hated how she, more than anyone, could set my blood boiling with the slightest insult. I resented how she was always better than me, and how no amount of grown-up years would change that feeling.
At the same time, I liked having someone to break the ice at family reunions. I loved sitting on our beds as teenagers and talking about how ridiculous our parents were.
I always looked to her when an important family decision needed to be made. And loved having someone else who shared a history, someone who knew all the stories about Uncle Bud and cousin Margie.
In many ways, my sister helped define me. She loved cooking; I hated it. She despised piano lessons; I thrived on them. She went the academic route; I took the creative.
Yet no matter how hard I tried to be different, down deep I was more like her than I cared to admit.
So it is I warily watch another generation of sisterhood grow up in my household.
I already have the 3-year-old trailblazer who must constantly be reminded to be a good example. ``Don't put that baloney on your head, your sister will too.'' And the young adorer who would follow her sister around the world, the one who will always have a living template before her.
I've seen the jealousy the older one has for the younger, felt the red-faced frustration when the younger one can't yet do what her sister does. I've listened to the sound of the rollicking laughter that only the two of them can make.
I've refereed the fights, and nearly worn out the line, ``She's your sister!'' As if that were reason enough to stop.
The phrase haunts me from my own childhood. ``Be her friend, she's your sister,'' my mother would say. ``Call her, she's your sister.'' ``Of course you love her, she's your sister.''
If a parent's love is unconditional, a sister's is obligatory.
No one can make you madder, or laugh harder. No one can hit closer to where you live, or claim to know you better than you know yourself.
You can love her or hate her, or do both at the same time, but she'll always be your sister. by CNB