Sisters by Elaine

In honour of spending the past 3 weeks with my soeur and it being her birthday and all that, this post is about sisters. Specifically, mine.

There are four years between us - I’m the older, wiser, hmm, whatever. I’m the middle one. Our brother is four years older than me...though this post doesn’t mention him at all from now on. Apologies to Alexander, Number One son.

Jude is my little sister. Little in age, not in personality or character. She’s a Leo. I am a Virgo (though I swear to god, I’m more Libra). Feisty, bold, the embodiment of a Lioness, that’s my sister. Also, loud, obnoxious, unable to whisper nor to sneak a subtle look at someone. Most of all though, she’s bloody amazing. Though she may be little younger, she be fierce.

We weren’t always friends. In fact, until I left home to go to college at 17, we positively loathed one another. We were at the same school for a time and I hated it. She hated it more, I suspect. We avoided each other and I was ruthless in my acknowledgement of her  “Who, her? Yes, she’s my sister, I supp-oooo-se.” Oh, what a cow I was.

Anyway, post college and all that, we became firmer friends. Through thick and thin, boyfriends, tragic hairstyles, jobs, (our parents), then husbands and children. Jude had children first - she is the mama to three wonderful boys. THREE. BOYS.  All my parenting I learnt from Jude. She was so laid back and relaxed, with a ‘DGAF what others think’ attitude, that I was confident I could raise my son without help at every corner, and to listen to my instincts rather than seek advice from the internet (BAD IDEA) or god forbid, parenting books. Caveat: Jude is married to the most laid back and chilled human being on planet earth. He is the yin to her yang. Credit where credit is due, a man with the patience of a saint, no less.

One cannot underestimate the importance of a sibling. The shared memories that go waaaay back, the in-jokes, the subtle references that only she/he will ever get, the knowing which buttons never to push (or to push when in the mood for an epic DefCon 5 fall-out). I always have her back, she always has mine. Mess with my sister, and I will go nuclear. The complicity in all and everything, good and bad.

My last night in England was spent in a Birmingham airport Novotel. Mum came with us. The three of us hung out in my hotel room, with my son having a meltdown. Rather than get stressed or irritated that the child was screaming blue murder, Jude picked him up, plonked him in the bath and gave him a wash. Actually, she fought with him tooth and nail and barely managed to splashed his bum a few times. It would have been easier to bathe a cat. It was the thought that counted and I was grateful.

I’d only allow my siblings or their spouses to reprimand my son, and that’s not because they’re family, it’s because I’ve seen how they parent and they’ve done an amazing job of it. A common phrase the past month has been “I only ever seem to yell at my child. Oh god.” Jude’s response “Me too. Oh god.”. Instant relief.

We watched the Commonwealth Games on telly, Mum making odd remarks, Jude and I ignoring her. If you saw it, you’d realize the Commonwealth Games were possibly one of the most dull and boring things one could ever watch, yet we enjoyed it. It was a bit more time together to just do nothing, to just be. The conversation turned to push-ups. Can’t do them I said. Neither can I said Jude. WOT? How did I not know that the ONLY person I’ve ever met who cannot do push-ups would be my sister? It figures really.

So we did a series of FAILED girlie and normal push-ups. On the hotel room floor. In-between the telly and the beds. Classy. Much shrieking, hysterical laughter and general idiocy ensued. Our mother continued watching the telly, commenting to nobody about nothing. Normality, basically. Yes, that level of craziness is the essence of our family. Had our brother been there, it would have been even crazier. And without doubt, much noisier, too. We are loud, enthusiastic, a bit over the top, three peas in a pod. Nobody is the odd one out.

I am sure our mother looks at us sometimes and wonders where in the heck we came from. We’re quite quite different from our parents. Case in point: Mum, sipping her cup of tea, stands up to find another plastic carton of milk from the hotel room fridge. Opens a black door with buttons on it, peers furiously inside and says “This is a VERY strangely designed fridge. Where’s the LIGHT?”. Her two daughters, in unison “OH MY GOD MUM, THAT’S THE SAFETY DEPOSIT BOX.”

Elaine