When I was little and my younger sister was even littler, she often called me a “meany”; whether I was actually being mean or not. And I would always argue back. The argument would always end with my mom separating the two of us and siding with my little sister, causing me to get in a lot of trouble. But that’s not the point I’m going to discuss. I want to focus on the part where I yell back that I’m not mean. Cause it’s important.
Until recently (aka a few months ago) my little sister and I never got along. She was the first one to actually throw a punch, but day and night we would argue back and forth. And whenever she called me a “meany”, I would start to boil. Up until now, I thought it was because I just didn’t like being called a meany. But now I’m starting to think it’s because of something different. I believe that the reason I didn’t like being called a meany was because I was her big sister. I was the one that she was supposed to look up to and confide in and have fun with. I was supposed to be shelter. And instead, she hated my guts.
Today during a babysitting job, the eldest of the two girls I was watching left the room without letting me know. As soon as I heard the door close, I ran after her, leaving the younger in the room, and brought the older one back inside. “After that,” I told her, “I’m going to have to always stay in the same room as you.” She was a hot pocket after hearing that. Running around and breathing heavily, she spoke angrily and called me a meany. It didn’t bother me though. Yes, I wanted the two girls to see me as a role model and a friend, but keeping them in line was more important.
There’s probably a comparison I could make between these two, but for right now I’m just getting my thoughts out. It’s another part of the this thing called “love” that I’m still trying to figure out. Another step on a long journey. Another adventure of life.