Siblings

I fear Megan is the kind of person who assumes that the glass is half empty. She also tends to believe that her brother’s glass is half full and responds with a high-pitched, “No fair!” to anything good that comes his way. Yesterday morning, when he sleepily rolled out of bed and staggered into my arms for a hug, Megan’s complaint was close behind. I explained that if she wanted a hug she could climb out of bed and get one. Instead she started the first argument of the day at 6:32 am.

One of my mantras is “Make a request, not a complaint.” For example, “I’m thirsty!” is a complaint. “May I please have a drink of water is a request.” The latter gets better results, in my experience, though it’s hard to remember that sometimes. Complaining is satisfactory in its own unhealthy way, kind of like eating too many potato chips. Slowly I think I’m training my kids to ask for what they want, though they still make the obligatory whiny complaint first. What’s harder is getting them past the petty sibling jealousy. Having grown up as an only child, I just don’t understand what’s so painful about seeing your bother get a hug when you can have as many hugs as you want. (“I don’t remember my mother ever hugging me,” I told them in frustration when they started demanding alternating hugs.)

Their relationship is a bit of a mystery to me, I must confess. Sometimes they are rivals, sometimes coconspirators or playmates. Sometimes I’m not sure what they’re up to, like the other day when Luke started asking if Santa Clause was real. I asked what he thought, and he said, “No, because we don’t have a chimney for Santa to come down. And if he came in through the door, he would track snow on the floor.” Forget that Santa is supposed to bring a gift to every kid in the whole world in one night in a sleigh pulled by flying reindeer; it was the chimney that tipped Luke off.

I don’t believe in lying to children, but I don’t like to steal the magic either, so I’ve never told them about Santa one way or another. I just let them pick up the story from the culture and work it out for themselves. In Kindergarten Luke was telling other kids that Santa wasn’t real (to the disappointment of at least one mother), but now he seemed unsure. I didn’t know if he wanted confirmation of his theory or the chance to believe the myth again. Before I figured out what to say, however, Megan jumped in with other possible explanations for how Santa might have gotten in to our house. They had a very serious discussion of the possibilities, but Luke seemed unconvinced. When he was out of earshot, I asked, “Megan, do you believe in Santa, or do you just want Luke to believe?”

“I just want him to believe,” she responded. I was reminded how sophisticated she’s getting when, an hour after Luke asked about Santa, Megan asked, “Who is Dick Cheney? And what is the CIA?”

I guess the questions don’t get any easier as they get older.