My Sister

My mother got into town last night to stay for a week.

Yes, yes, I know.  The title of this post is "My Sister."

I mention my mother as a way of explaining why I missed a day of writing.  And also as a likely foreshadowing of a post on my mother to come soon.

But back to the title of this post.

There is a family story that has been repeated for as long as I can remember, so much so that it is almost a memory for me, even though it is clearly a shared memory because I was just shy of four years old at the time.

I am the oldest child in my family, and my first sister was born just about exactly three and a half years after me.  My parents were in the middle of a messy divorce, and Tammy and I were sitting at the base of the stairs in our small, two story townhouse.  The floor was hard tile, and my sister was not even six months old, just able to sit up on her own.  My mother says she was just out of reach when she looked over and saw my sister start to tip over and fall backward, her precious infant skull sure to make a resounding crack as it struck the ground.  But, as my mother watched, I reached out my nearly four year old hand and caught her baby head just before it hit, firmly bonding the older sister/younger sister dynamic that would last the rest of our lives.

Fast forward several years and I was desperate to be rid of her when my friends were around, but only too happy to play Little People or Barbies when we were alone.  We bundled up washcloths to make their beds in their little shoe box houses, tiny pieces of folded up toilet paper serving as their pillows.  Old dominoes made excellent tables while backgammon pieces were chairs.  We lived in an imaginary world unto ourselves for seven years until my next sister came along, and we took her, and then my brother three years after that, into our fold.

Tammy and I have shared laughter and tears.  I have fought with her as hard as I've fought with anyone, yet I've stood in front of hulking bullies that likely could have wiped me out in defense of my petite sibling, daring anyone to try to walk through me to get to her.

Fast forward again, to the present day.

We are as different as two sisters so close in age can be.  I live in the city; she lives in a small town.  I have a graduate degree and work in education; she has a high school diploma and runs an investment office.  I am, for the most part, a full time mom of one, working part time and renting an apartment, and she works full time, she's a homeowner, and she is the mother of two.

This last part is the part that has recently stood out to me the most.  For as long as I can remember I have said that I would be a stay at home mom, whereas she has never really made a statement either way.  One of the primary reasons I went so far in school, in fact, was so that I could earn a decent income while focusing most of my attention on my family.  And I frequently say that I am a supermom, superwoman, goddess, etc., etc.

I am very humble.

But my sister, my sister is a different kind of mom, a different kind of career woman, a different kind of wife, a different kind of woman.  And only since I have had my own child (her first came first) have I been able to truly appreciate the reality of one important point I have been missing in my estimation of my baby sister.  She is a goddess too.

If ever a woman could argue for being a full time employee and a great mom, it is Tammy.  She excels at work, dearly missed when she is out on vacation or maternity leave, and she thrives at home, fully immersed in her time with her babies when she has it.  Friends are hard pressed to force her out for a girls' night when she could instead be at home snuggling, cuddling, reading, cooking, or cleaning up after her family; to see her girlfriends, she organizes play dates or dinner parties that include her friends and their kids.  She allows her children to have later bedtimes so that she can have more quality time with them when she is home.  And why not?  They do not have school or daycare to get up and get out for the next day; she has worked out the perfect arrangement of a few days for the kids with grandma down the street, one week day at home with their dad, her husband, and one week day at home with her; since her youngest was born she has taken it upon herself to take an extra, unpaid day off of work to be with her darlings.  She is the best working mother I have ever met, and I am so immeasurably proud to call her sister.

Now, after thirty five years of life and thirty two years as a big sister, I am happy to admit that I see Tammy as a kind of mirror I stand in front of often, not to see if she looks like me, or if I need to lose weight (I do.  She's tiny.), but to see if, where it matters, I measure up.

My sister proves that different work and family decisions realistically can and do work for different people, without the children suffering, without being attacked by stress and/or guilt, without compromising values, that superwomen come in all shapes, sizes, and life choices.

Because, without saying a word, she makes me constantly re-evaluate my ideas, she reminds me to think before I speak, she shows me how to unconditionally love my husband, being her sister makes me want to be a better person.