SISTERS
“There were once two sisters
who were not afraid of the dark
because the dark was full of the other’s voice
across the room.”
Dear Hadley,
When you moved into your new house about a year ago, bedrooms were divided up. Your brother shared with baby Emerson. You gained control of your own private, well-lit kingdom.
Your mom laughed about it — Queen Hadley. I think it was mostly a result of your particularities, which often dictate your nighttime restlessness (right now, you are the master of bedtime excuses/truths: too hot, too itchy, too hungry). Aiden and Emerson share and sleep with ease.
But now Aiden is seven. He’s in school and has friends over. He needs a little more space to keep all of his legos and his guinea pig.
So Emerson moved into your room.
You told me all about it over FaceTime. You showed me your new set up, the way Emerson’s things fit with yours. You were so excited.
I told you that when your mom and I were little, we shared a room too. I told you how one time, when your mom was really sick in bed, she asked me if I would bring her her Teddy Ruxpin doll. I walked over to our shared closet to kindly grab her singing bear and stepped right into a pile of puke. She had barfed and not said a word.
You laughed and laughed. And then you asked if I would tell you more things I remember about your mom when she was young.
Today is your mom's twenty-ninth birthday. The last year in a life-changing and life-giving (times three!) decade. So it seems like a good day to tell you some things about her. Maybe you’ll go back and read this on your own twenty-ninth birthday. Or when you're mad at her for something and need a reminder that she's wonderful and human. Or maybe you’ll read it when you are away at college and missing Emerson.
When your mom was born, I was 22 months—just a month older than Emerson is right now. Your Gram Gram brought Uncle Nick and I to the hospital to meet our new sister. I’m glad that your Grandpa took video of that day because it’s before my memories start and it’s fun to see how we all were. I climbed right up into Grandma’s hospital bed and drapped my whole body on top of your miniature mom. I didn’t have many words then, but I kept saying, “baby sa-wah, baby sa-wah, hold baby sa-wah now, hold baby sa-wah now.”
I touched every part of her tiny new face. I pressed my lips against her wrinkly new forehead. I smooshed my cheeks against hers, patted her jet black hair. I squeezed her hands and inspected her feet. I put my own feet to her face so she could see what we shared.
Obsession at first sight.
Your mom has always had the softest skin. I don't understand how it's possible to have skin like that. When we were little, I always wanted to squeeze it. I would clench my small hands into shaky fists to keep myself from pinching her.
Out of the three of us, she was the most beautiful. Quiet and curious, with these huge blue/green eyes that didn't match any of ours and dark brown wispy hair. Our very own little Cindy-Lou-Who.
She read nonstop. Ten books going at once. She left trails of paperbacks all over the house. Stacks in every corner.
When we were in late elementary school, we used to fake sick together. We’d plan it the night before.
“I’ll get up after we go to sleep and go into mom and dad’s room and tell them I just threw up.”
“Then when I wake up the next morning I’ll say my stomach hurts too.”
“We could chew up some Wheat Thin Crackers and spit them into the toilet so it seems real.”
We’d sleep in and drink Sprite with the fizz stirred out and lay on the couch with our pretend stomachaches and watch movies all day.
Even when we had our own rooms, I still liked sleeping in hers—which was pink and purple and flowery. Sometimes she let me. But usually she kicked me out for talking too much.
I gave her nicknames. Not the meaningful kind, born from an exaggerated trait or something she did. But the completely random kind, born from my affectionate/lazy desire to call her the first made-up word that came to mind. Moomer, Rooney, Roonis, Rooper, Rupert—there were dozens. If roles were reversed, I would have scrutinized each one, demanding something cooler or more accurate. But she never cared what it was or how it sounded. She always just answered and laughed. I love that about her still—the way she doesn't get caught up in small things. Pheobes stuck for life (spelled with eo instead of oe because it looked better). It's still what I call her today. My little Pheobes.
For a lot of years, we didn’t get along. I remember one family vacation where your Grandma was so mad at us. She said, “you two are ruining this vacation for the whole family!” I’m sure she was right. We fought nonstop. The tomboy and the ballerina. We thought we hated each other.
But on that same vacation, we left everyone to go snorkeling on our own. We knew we were supposed to love the sea life, but we both hated it. Hated the masks that leaked, hated the fish getting too close to our legs. I pooped in the water so we could look at something other than the pink coral. We couldn’t stop laughing.
In high school, we were closer. We shared clothes and makeup and hair straighteners. We shared razors and face wash and jumbo boxes of tampons. And with our teenage moods combined, we were a force. We walked around in our underwear, back and forth between each others rooms, ignoring the rest of the family while we got ready.
There is magic in the way the existence of a sister makes you more sure of your own body.
We covered for each other. In High School, I loved seeing your mom’s blue jeep flying up the driveway late on a summer afternoon. Window’s down, country music blaring, tan and free. She would say she had stayed at a friends house the night before, just watching movies.
I kept her secrets, she kept mine.
Your mom is smart and caring. She’s sensitive and kind. She’s full of grace and ease. These things have always been true. But they are becoming more true with time. Or maybe it's just that I can see better. It's indescribable to watch her with you and your siblings. She's the best mom. She's light and fun and certain with you three. I’m constantly in awe.
I wonder how old you’ll be before you realize exactly how lucky you are that you got her.
When Emerson was born, you were the same with her as I was with your mom. You couldn’t stop touching her. You gave her ‘smother-hugs'—where you’d hold her in your lap and collapse forward over her, so her entire body was covered by yours. Your Grandma assured your mom that Emerson would survive your suffocating love —just like your mom survived mine.
You and I are both middle kids—wedged between siblings, both the younger and olderolder sister. I was always aware of the squeeze, constantly elbowing for more space. One day you’ll realize there’s plenty of room for everyone.
Emerson will be your ally. She will be your confidante, your support, your go-to ear for complaints about your mom and dad.
Your DNA is 50% shared. But that blood and bone and cell sameness did not manifest shared hair color and it won't guarantee shared personalities or perspectives. You won't have all the same interests. You won’t necessarily have the same taste in food or guys or friends or clothing.
The differences are the good stuff.
As friends shift and relationships start and end and start and end, Emerson will be your constant. As you grow up and become more sure of your own self, you will more deeply appreciate the unique person she becomes. You will love her as much for the way she roots you to who you are as for the way she stands separate and tall, all on her own.
Eventually, one of you will have kids of your own.
The gift of a sister is bigger than words.
The gift of a sister sharing her kids with you is otherworldly.
My sister’s daughter, my niece's sister: I love you so much.
Aunt Liz
A favorite of your mom and me. I think she must have been about 3 here. Preschool.
A favorite of you and Emerson (and not even just because E is wearing a onesie with my name on it—but partially because of that.). Rolling around on the floor together with your limbs all over the place. I think she's about one and a half here.
