What Bossy Big Sisters Know about Parenting

I admit it:  I was (and maybe still am) the bossy big sister.  While it didn’t always serve me very well when I tried out my administrative skills on my brothers, there are a few things I learned from my vast experience at making demands and executing orders (at least until my brothers grew taller than me). 

 

There is a reason why oldest children are statistically more likely to hold a position of authority in a company, and maybe part of it is that we have had more time to learn from our managerial mistakes.  Our rebellious little subjects (also known as “siblings”) had a few lessons for us over the years.  Here have been a few of mine: 

 

1.  Make Only Credible Threats.

 

As the oldest child, I was technically the landowner of everything in our whole house, since I had been there first (26 months, to be exact).  Therefore I viewed my brothers as “squatters,” nomadic little gypsies who had suddenly appeared on the premises without any of their own capital, borrowing property without my express permission. 

 

One day, I went downstairs and noticed my brothers playing with a toy I wanted.  When they refused to turn it over to my custody, I was forced to make the following very sad announcement:  “Today I will be running away.” 

 

The response I got was amazing!  Eric started crying, and Brian handed over the toy without argument.  I was Queen for the Day!  Or at least the hour.  When I went back later to try that line again, Brian’s exact words (and I’m quoting here) were:  “Go ahead.”  He actually said that!  I had hoped he might miss me a little. But alas, he had called my bluff.  To my memory, that wonderful line was never able to be used again.

Every time I hear a mom at Walmart say, “If you don’t stop that, I’m leaving you in this store!”  a little voice from my childhood springs up in my head.  “Go ahead.”  At McDonald’s playland, when some mother announces (to everyone in hearing distance), “You kids get down right now, or I’m leaving you here all night!”, I hear him chirping again.  “Go ahead.”  When she threatens to mail the children to Beijing for arguing in the car, or call the police on a six-year-old who won’t pick up his bookbag, or send them to boarding school for not making their beds, he snorts.  “Go ahead.” 

 

Experienced debaters know to put forth their best arguments first.  When parents start out with a lie, they not only discredit their own honesty, but they are also announcing to the world that they don’t have any better argument for making their child obey than a pretty wild tale no one really believes.  Surely we have better reasons for our kids to mind us. 

 

2.  Turn off the Tears

 

It’s hard to believe, but my brothers once accused me of crying on purpose to persuade Mom to side with me.  (Imagine that!)  Sometimes I was really crying real tears, too!  Apparently crying manipulatively once (or twice . . .) ruled out the remote possibility that I might be sincere on occasion.   My brothers had hearts of stone. 

 

It sounds spiritual—standing in the kitchen, Bible in hand, weeping quietly as you tell the pre-pubescents why it pains your heart when they argue over whose turn it is to lick out the brownie bowl.  You close with a short hymn and a prayer—and they glare at one another with the silent accusation, “You are a bad brother.  You just made Mom cry!”  They are truly sad.  The second time tears are invoked, they are embarrassed.  Why is she crying again?  It was a math paper!  The third time, they are angry.  This is starting to smell like manipulation. 

 

Remember, if you and I cry every time someone complains about doing dishes, we are just dulling our knives for the real work that lies ahead, when much bigger tasks arise-- issues much more worthy of our tears.  By then, our kids will be desensitized to seeing us cry.  There is a place for a mother’s tears.  Just don’t let your kids get used to seeing them for petty things. 

 

3.  Big Messes don’t always equal Big Sins

 

We once had a babysitter who would come to watch us on occasion while our parents went out.   Since she happened to be having a crush on our next door neighbor, we sometimes enjoyed an evening of independence, fighting and chasing each other around the property while Betsy tried to get Bob’s attention in the back yard.  On one of those evenings, my brother Brian took a shortcut over the edge of the flower bed while he was racing around and accidentally stepped on a tulip.  Tragically, a flower actually died that night.  It was the saddest sight:  I even made my mom a card about it, knowing she would be devastated and would need to hear the news from me personally.  My card included illustrations (to identify exactly which flower had perished) and pictures of large tear drops. It was a sort of sympathy card, in honor of the passing away of a flower.   My mom thought it was so hilarious she saved the card (not exactly the response I was expecting).  They even let my brother stay in the family. 

 

Big messes don’t always mean big sins.  When I see parents tearing into their kids for a spilled cup of milk (big mess), but ignoring rolled eyes, sullen attitudes, and rudeness (big sins), I am reminded of my panic over a tulip.  Some kids have heard more about tracked mud, kool-aid stains, and toppled vases than they have about their ipod music, their treatment of siblings, or their inappropriate innuendos and pictures on Facebook.  Do we discipline more for inconvenience and carpet stains than we do for real sin? 

 

4.  Micromanagers don’t get no respect. 

 

Being the only sister in our family, I had my own room.  It was Control-Freak Heaven.  The dolls always wore clothes, and even the items in my drawers were arranged in length-order.  As early as the third grade, I alternated between organizing my book shelf by author (alphabetically) and height (short to tall).  And no one touched my stuff. 

 

One Sunday afternoon, after making sure that everything in my bedroom passed final white-glove inspection , I ventured out to the living room to read the Sunday comics.  Something about my room tempted Brian.  Being a little more “arbitrary” in his system of order, he enjoyed upsetting the balance of nature every so often.  This happened to be one of those days.  He found a little tub where I kept fake money.  (You never know when you might need a $500.00 bill.)  Each bill was carefully pressed and rubber-banded according to denomination, and the coins were literally balanced in perfect columns, according to their fake values, like some sort of art exhibit.  It was the perfect storm.

 

Lying on the floor reading Family Circus, I was suddenly baptized with counterfeit money, thanks to Brian.  My precious little plastic coins flew everywhere, flooding down upon me and bouncing off the comic strip page.  Would you believe I cried over that?  I think perfectionism might be a form of sickness.  (Good news:  My house today indicates that I am fully recovered.)    

 

 I feel sorry for kids who have to live in sanitized museums.  I’m not talking about getting rid of cockroaches; I’m talking about getting rid of crayons because they pose too much hazard. Houses are havens, not show-and-tell exhibits.  Kids are supposed to build forts with blankets, desks, and chairs, and make castles out of blocks, legos, and Lincoln Logs.  There are supposed to be books facedown on end tables, and the occasional stray sock where a toddler got too warm from jumping on the bed (when no one was looking).  Remember, only hospitals have walls without fingerprints.  And if you don’t have any popcorn under your sofa, you need to work on that. 

 

I learned all that—way back when I used to be Queen of the World.