Handling Sibling Rivalry in Your Home

** Written for WikiMommy 

http://www.wikimommy.com/How_to_Handle_Sibling_Rivalry_in_Your_Home

Ah, that age old problem, sibling rivalry. Damn you Cain and Abel!

The causes of sibling rivalry varies from family to family, and child to child. Factors such as jealousy, competition for time, attention, love and approval, personality differences or dysfunctional family dynamics, can all play a part. A parent’s inaction, being close in age, sex, and hierarchy in the family, also factors in.

Putting it simply, some siblings can’t and don’t get along. Just like we don’t choose our parents, (Cher and I would’ve made a great mother-daughter team) we don’t choose our siblings either. A child’s needs, anxieties, and unique identities can cause him or her to push their siblings’ buttons. A child’s temperament, mood, and disposition, can irritate his or her sibling, to the point where listening to them breath is reason enough to fly off the handle and throw a Dr. Sholl’s sandal at their head.

What part does the parent play in how well the children relate to one another? Are they role models? How are their conflict resolution skills? Are they respectful? Aggressive? Do they fight fair or do they shout, slam doors, and argue loudly? Guess what? The children are watching and listening.

The fact that siblings spend an inordinate amount of time together growing up, plays another part in rivalrous behavior. Even young children need their alone time. Stress can shorten children’s fuses, and inhibit their ability to tolerate frustration, which may lead to more contention with their sibling.

We know that it’s common for siblings to fight, and while it’s no picnic for the parents, in most cases, it’s nature at work. Siblings will often go back and forth between loving and despising one another. And while society, and most parents, would like to believe that their kids’ relationship with one another will eventually develop into a close one, it is not always the case.

Parents, and society as a whole, need to see things as they are, not as how they wish they were. My parent’s still wish my brother and I got along like Donny and Marie, but that just isn’t going to happen. Ever.

Approximately one-third of adult siblings, who grew up fighting and bickering, may describe their childhood as humiliating, hurtful or distant, when referring to their sibling. In some cases, the unique identities, and individual differences between siblings, are too great, and close relationships are impossible. These siblings don't get along, have little in common, spend limited time together, and are often locked into old patterns,

What to do, what to do. Therapists, Analysts, Psychiatrists and parents, from Anchorage to Papua New Guinea, struggle with this question. While there is no clear cut, universal, black and white answer, the following might be helpful and a good place to start.

1- Try not to get involved and see if the siblings can work out the scuffle for themselves. This isn’t always easy. However, a parent must also know when a fight has escalated and needs to step in, especially if one of the siblings is in harms way. 

2- “It’s not fair.” Try not to be swayed by this argument. It’s not about being fair, it’s about about what’s best for that sibling.

3- Separate the kids, if they can release their grip on the other one’s hair. This will give everyone a chance to cool down and then when everyone is calm, a discussion can be started.

4- Try not to favor. I’m not sure how a parent can be impartial but it’s probably best to at least make an effort.

5- In order for this next suggestion to work, the siblings must respect the parent. If they respect their parents, parents can try laying down the law, and rules for acceptable behavior. Children need to know that there are consequences to their actions.

6- Because siblings are often vying for the attention of a parent, it’s important to give each child some one on one time.

7- It’s not fair to a sibling to compare him or her to their brother or sister. Saying things like, “Why can’t you be smart like your sister?” is not productive and may lead to jealousy and conflict between those two siblings.

8- Family meetings weren’t big when I was growing up, back in the day, but it can be an opportunity to show the children how to talk about their feelings, without yelling, name-calling, or violence. Grievances can be aired in a safe, and controlled environment.

9- If sibling rivalry gets to the point where it disrupts the daily functioning of the family, or affects any of the children emotionally or psychologically, perhaps you want to seek  professional help.

According to an article in Psychology Today, “We have no rituals that make, break, or celebrate the sibling bond. And family experts have underemphasized the sibling relationship, instead concentrating on parents and children and husbands and wives. Small wonder that sibling rivalry is accepted as the normal state of affairs.”

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner... And staying for a month?!

Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner... and staying for a month?!

If you guessed a dapper black man named Sidney Poitier, sadly, you’d be wrong. Great guess... still wrong. The answer: my boyfriend’s 18 year-old daughter. Ah!

She lives in a dorm at school in NYC and has off until January 17th. What the f’ is up with our educational system? I do not remember having a month off when I was in college. A few months ago, she asked if she could live with us, instead of her mother(issues) when she’s on vacation and over the summer. What could we say. “Of course.” Of course my “Of course” was uttered through clenched teeth and a forced smile.

I like my boyfriend’s daughter. We get along quite well, do stuff together and I think she likes me. What’s not to like? My apprehension, hesitation and internal wig out, has more to do with that old stand by, “I didn’t sign up for this.” Like every other child related event that’s been hurled at my head, this too will take time to process.

I’m not used to having another body around. Another body that doesn’t know how to put dishes in the dishwasher. Another body that takes my nail polish and doesn’t return it. Another body that is a messy eater. Another body that didn’t know to knock before entering a closed door. Another body lurking around the house, so that now I can’t lurk around the house naked. Another body sleeping in the room next door, so now my boyfriend and I have to keep the television on to drown out the noise when we do sexy stuff. Oh, and believe you me, there’s noise.

I know that this is yet another piece of the Girlfriend Mom puzzle, but I was just getting used to soccer Sundays. I wasn’t expecting to live with a child for more than 48 hours every other weekend. I didn’t see this one coming.

In the short time that she’s been with us, I’ve learned a lot about myself. And really, who needs that?! When the four of us played board games over the Christmas break, I felt like a stepmom in a Lifetime movie, for the first time in five years. I was the odd man out, the one that didn’t belong. The non-blood relation. I glanced over at the three of them and their profound closeness, wafted in the air. I felt a million miles away.

I try to convey to my boyfriend that what he and his kids have been used to with their mother, is naturally going to be a different dynamic with me. I’m not their mother. They’re not my kids. Sometimes I’m uncomfortable with the familiarity that they share. I’m traveling in foreign territory without a GPS system, and often I don't know why I'm feeling the way that I do.

I cannot move any faster than my feelings will allow. Perhaps it’s simply a question of time and patience. I’m honoring, not judging. Wow, that got serious quickly. Moving on.

Why do the kids have to take showers in our bathroom? They have a brand new gorgeous one to use. I don’t understand (just one in a long list of things I don’t understand) Is it because they see it as a treat? Do they feel closer to their dad? The question I ask myself is, “Why does it ruffle my feathers?”

I lived alone for a long time before I moved in with my boyfriend. I’m used to my privacy and not having to share, unless I wanted to. For crying out loud, my boyfriend and I are still learning to live with each another. Now you add a child to the mix, without having the benefit of years of practice, and poof! disruption of routine, rhythm, style and wet towels on the bathroom floor.

Change doesn’t come easily for a lot of people (especially my mother) and apparently this kind of change doesn’t come easily to me either. I can uproot myself from a 16-year stint in Los Angeles, selling everything from fork to car, and move to Prague, but living with kids scares me. The parent (my boyfriend) in the relationship has to realize that the non-parent (me) has no past experience to draw upon.

I’m trying not to make a mountain out of a mole hill, because the reality is, none of it is life threatening. Rather, it’s the emotions and feelings that the situation stirs in me, that gives me pause. This is what I’ve come up with, in so special order.

- I’m competitive playing board games, and when I don't know something, I put my poopy pants on because I realize that I’m not as smart as I think I am. And if I didn't have to play games with the kids, I wouldn't have to admit this to myself.
- I’m jealous of the attention my boyfriend pays to his daughter. (Was my mother jealous of my close relationship with my father? Note to self- ask mom)
- Sometimes I feel like I play second fiddle and I don’t like it.
- I crave boundaries and there aren’t a lot regarding my boyfriend and the kids. Boundaries were an issue in my family, mainly because they didn’t exist. I needed them, so I'd punish myself, often sending me to my room.
- Sometimes I feel that sides are taken, and they ain’t mine.
- I chose not to have kids for a reason and sometimes I feel that I’m not living my truth.
- Sometimes, when it comes to the kids, I’m immature, controlling, and selfish. I want all the attention. C’mon, I’m a performer. Of course I want all of the attention!
- I’ve truly come to realize how important solitude, peace and quiet are to me.
- My boyfriend and I change when the kids are around. And sometimes not for the better.
- I sometimes judge my boyfriend’s daughter, or the way he’s raising her. Yuck on me!
- My demand for order gives me the allusion that I have some control over a situation that I often feel that I have no control over.

How much of my crap, and by crap, I mean my feelings, are unresolved personal issues, or my hot buttons? Perhaps these little people are my triggers. Damn them! Why do they have to unleash, overturn and bring up what I’ve worked so hard to shove down.

I met a very wise woman the other day, who recently lost her fourth husband. She has both biological and step children. We shared stories of the children in our lives, to which she said, through held back years, “Just love them. That’s all they want.”

And that’s what I plan to do. Dishes in the dishwasher or not.

Why Did You Tell Dad That I Got My Period?

My Lover and I were talking the other day about his twelve year old son having his first girlfriend. I’m not sure that I can remember what girlfriend and boyfriend meant in seventh grade. I do know that I went to my first co-ed party, played spin the bottle, and prayed that it would get too late in the evening to play seven minutes in the closet. I was quite shy in the romance department back then.

In any case, I asked my Lover if he was going to have a father-son talk, including favorites like, “It’s perfectly normal to masturbate, but class it up a bit and don’t use a friggin’ sock.” My Lover said that it wasn't necessary. Huh? Not being a full time parent, I was confused.

My parents had talks with me. Or were those my TV parents? Parents are supposed to talk to their kids about sex and, more often that not, how to avoid it, right? Don't they say things like, "I'm here for you, if you ever want or need to talk." Mine did.

Apparently, my Lover (I want to see how long it takes before you get nauseated by the word) didn't think so. He’s the youngest of five, from a working class family in Portugal. There weren’t a lot of sit-downs with his parents, unlike my hippy dippy- consciousness raising- pot smoking- macrame plant holder making- denim cap wearing- Three Dog Night listening- free to be you and me- parents. He never talked about sex, bodily functions or anything too personal, with his parents, unlike my parents. I wish I'd been from Portugal.

Most of the time I didn’t want to tell my parents anything, but in some perverse and distorted way, I felt compelled to talk because they said that I could, and I didn't want to hurt their feelings. I wanted it to be like the families on TV. I wanted to be on the receiving end of that glorious undivided parental attention. I soon learned that it was best to get that attention from an anonymous audience, while singing and dancing on stage.

Flashback to 1980.

I was in eighth grade and babysitting at a neighbor’s house. I hated babysitting for that family. There was never anything good to eat, the kids were dorks (and that’s coming from a dork) and the husband creeped the crap out of me. I remember him driving me home one night, and when he pulled into my driveway, he said, "Okay, pussy, thank you for your help." Ew on every f’in level. I convinced myself that he didn’t mean it in a vaginal way, and that it was a throw back to his generation when pussy actually meant pussycat.

Even at 13, it sounded gross and inappropriate. If it happened today, and I’m not sure why I’d be babysitting and getting rides home, since I have a car, I’d report him to the authorities and see if his name was on any public sex offender's lists.

I got my menses (gotta love the word) for the first time that night. My mother was beside herself. She didn’t know what to do first. Um, how about finding me something so I don’t soil my Carter’s. It would be a few more years until I discovered thongs!

And what she came up with- wait for it - wait for it - was a goddam belt, which was like suspenders for a sanitary napkin. What the f? What is this 1870? It’s 19 fargin 80! My mom told me that I was too young for tampons, and wanted to ask the doctor first just to make sure that it was okay to shove something up inside of me. That was thoughtful of her.

I begged and pleaded with my mom not to tell my dad. She promised and I went into my bedroom. Not ten minutes later, there was a knock on my door. It was my dad. He sat down on the edge of my bed, and I swear, I think he had tears in his eyes.

"Congratulations. I'm so proud of you. You’re a young woman." Okay, first of all, thanks mom, I hate you, and I’m never ever going to tell you anything ever again, ever, as long as I live! 

And secondly, really, dad, congratulations? For what? I had no control over this. It wasn’t like I studied hard for a test and got an A! I didn’t see this happening as an accomplishment or something to tick off of my To Do list. And I wished that he didn’t say woman, because at that age, certain words, like woman, sounded icky to me and made me uncomfortable. Don’t try to figure that one out. Suffice to say, the whole ordeal was embarrassing.

A few years later, even after all of the menses drama, I trotted my ass back to the mommy well, after losing my virginity, because, “You can tell me anything,” and I'm an idiot and I wanted to share. Again.

My mom wigged out. It wasn’t in a, ‘I'm so disappointed in you. How could you have done such a thing? I'm not taking care of it, if you get pregnant’ sort of way, but rather in a, 'I’m not ready for this’ sort of way.

CUT TO: The Present

This is a cautionary tale, kids. Think twice before you believe your parent's supposed openness. My belief is that parents really don't want you to tell them shit because it only re-enforces how ill equipped, ill-prepared, and utterly clueless they are. There's no need to shove their faces in it. Go tell your grandparents instead.

I Was A Grandparent For A Day

Last week was Grandparent's Day at my nephew's school. Unfortunately my parents were out of town, so my sister-in-law asked me if I would step in. My nephew is also my godson, and I see him so rarely, I couldn't possibly say no. 

The day started with coffee and a bakery item in the cafeteria. Me and a roomful of sixty, seventy and eighty year olds. Psych. No problem. I can shmooze with anyone, even if they are attached to an oxygen tank.

After a speech from one of the heads of the school, welcoming us to a very special day, the school's jazz band came out and took their seats on a stage. The music teacher introduced the band, who then launched into a 'high school' rendition of a Dizzy Gillespie song, whose name escapes me at the moment.

As I sat their watching these eleven, twelve and thirteen year old's blow their horns, beat their drums and pound the keyboards, I thought about how proud these grandparents must be, watching their grandkids.

Because I don't have children of my own, I won't truly know what that feels like. I felt my eyes well with tears. I won't see my child perform, or play a sport, or be there to cheer them on in whatever activity that they're involved with. I wondered what a child of mine would be like. Would they play in a jazz band?

Every so often I play the 'what if' game. It doesn't last long but it's profound nonetheless. When I awake from my reverie, I remind myself of the reasons for my choice not to have a child. Still, I am not hardened to the idea nor am I immune to the 'what ifs'.

My nephew found me moments later and the first thing out of his mouth was, "It smells like old people in here." Why yes it does godson, let's motor.

Our first stop was science class. They did an experiment with helium, hydrogen and strings. The teacher was very engaging and I tried to think back on my eighth grade science teacher and I couldn't. Not because I didn't want to but because I couldn't friggin' remember. Note to self, text Emily and ask her who our teacher was.

I have never felt so incompetent and idiotic as I did in the social studies class, and I've had my share of incompetence and idiocy. My nephew and I sat a table with another student and her grandparents. The teacher, who was incredibly dynamic, handed out a worksheet about the civil rights movement. The class was studying the civil war, and the teacher was linking historical events, so that the students could see how such events are related. Shit, where was this guy when I was in school?

In the left column of the worksheet were the names of people and in the right column were events from the civil rights. He asked each table to identify and discuss the people on the left and what their relationship was to the events on the right. Fuck me. I could only identify one! One! And my nephew knew less than that. Needless to say my side of the table was rather quiet. In all fairness, the class hadn't gone over the civil rights movement yet but what the hell was my excuse?

The grandparents at our table knew a lot more. Of course they did, they friggin' lived through it. I was barely born! And to be perfectly honest, I don't remember studying it in class at The Robert E. Bell school. I blame the school and the teachers. The truth is, I was probably rehearsing my lines for "Bye Bye Birdie", under my desk, instead of paying attention.

The fact that I've gone all these years without knowing this part of history is shameful. My parents should ask for their money back, and I should repeat eighth grade. It's true. I thought about this while I sat at the table, with an embarrassingly blank look on my punim. I'm ready for eighth grade!

I can see now that some of my struggles in school were due to a lack of certain fundamentals, such as proper studying skills and not doing homework in front of "I Dream of Jeannie." It wasn't until I became a Pilates instructor, that I understood the different ways that people learn and retain information. For me, if facts and figures can be transposed into a musical number, I'm good.

I listened intently to the teacher making the connections between the civil war and the cival rights movement, and it all started to make sense. How cruel that, as soon as I'm ready and willing to learn, my memory is fading. So even if I do understand, I now run the risk of forgetting it.

I felt as if I let my godson down by being so dumb. Wait! My ego didn't need this. I already went through the hell of eighth grade. I did not want to relive this time in my life.

As I sat in art class (the last of the day) I wondered if the kids that my nephew were talking to were his true friends? Were they just being nice because their grandparents were in the room? Was he popular? Did he get invited places? Did the girls like him? Did he like girls? Each thought brought a twinge of anxiety and heart tugging.

I admit that I was riding the projection train. Seventh and eighth grades were horrific, the likes of which are still traumatizing me, if only subconsciously. I was not only physically awkward but the years were fraught with popularity contests, (hoping for the attention of the likes of Bobby Avonda), and trying to hide my pronounced proboscis.

I didn't want my nephew to go through what I did. I didn't want him to be sad or to feel different. The whole ordeal was f'in heart wrenching. I THINK I was feeling what it must be like for a parent. All I know is that I'd be in tears every day because clearly I'm unable to detach myself.

Still, I'm going to talk to my brother and sister-in-law about home schooling my godson.