Having one child is a lot of work. Before this adoption, I suppose I assumed (and we all know what happens when one assumes...) that having two children would mean twice the work. In my delusional state, I even believed that perhaps - just perhaps - my older child could help with the younger one at times, thereby making life easier for everyone. After all, my younger brother was born when I was nine years old and the next eight years of my life involved much babysitting, bathing, soothing, storytelling, entertaining, etc.
Silly me. What was I thinking?
I love Bean. Really, I do. And I knew that the adoption of Pearl would be an adjustment for him. He is a smart little boy and even a few months ago, he knew enough to say that he didn't want to share the attention and love of his parents with another child. I tried to tell him about the fun parts of having a sibling: a partner for board games, hide and seek, and Mario Kart; an instant playmate when no one else was available; a small disciple who would idolize his every move and laugh at all his jokes. Bean was not swayed. As I said, he is a smart boy and he astutely countered my arguments with his own:
She is too little.
He doesn't want a three year old hanging around him all the time.
She won't even understand his jokes since she only knows Mandarin.
He already has friends and he doesn't want a sister.
He doesn't want any less attention from Mom and Dad.
His life is just fine the way it is.
So, what is a parent to do in the face of these arguments? At six years old, Bean is too young for me to tell him what I know to be true. Siblings mean a shared history, a conspirator, a confidante. A brother or sister is someone who can tell you whether or not your memories are real or fabricated, whether your childhood was idyllic, dysfunctional, or something in between. Siblings are a window and a mirror.
As a physician, I see how siblings come together to support each other and care for ailing parents. Or not. I see how, when parents die, children are the ones who live on. There is nothing wrong with being an only child, but when siblings have good relationships, they can lean on one another and share the burdens of caregiving and grief.
As a sister, I know that siblings are a pain, but they are also blessings. When that same younger brother I referenced previously died nearly one year ago, I realized just how it feels to be unmoored from that shared history, that intertwined family story. I grieve for who he was and who he will never be, but I also grieve because I am now the only one who will carry my mother and stepfather's legacy forward in time. I won't ever be able to call my brother on the telephone and say, "Remember when our mom said...?" or "Remember that time we skipped stones at Schoolhouse Beach and...?". If I am fortunate enough to live a long time, I alone will be the one who has to tell my stepfather that his eyesight is too bad to continue driving, or sit my mother down and break the news that it is time for her to move to an assisted living facility.
These are things that I cannot share with a six year old child, even one as precocious as Bean. He just has to accept that his parents decided that adopting Pearl is what is best for this family, even if he
doesn't understand or agree.
It has been a hard adjustment.
Trouble started from day one, when we met Pearl and our family of 3 upgraded to version 2.0, i.e. - Windows Family IV. Tantrums, jealousy, regression, petty rivalries (that were pretty much imagined on the part of Bean since Pearl has been happily oblivious to his scowls and angry English words). She toddles after him while he tells her to go away. She repeats "No!" and points her tiny finger back at him when he scolds her, believing it to be some delightful game. Bean repeatedly asks us, "Why does she get to (insert innocuous verb here)?"
Examples include:
"Why does she get to eat?" This is usually said when Bean himself is eating.
"Why does she get to sleep in your room?" Um, ok. Never mind that Bean spent his first six months in our lives swaddled in a pack and play next to our bed.
"Why does she get all the attention?" Right... So the hour I just spent painstakingly applying decals on his latest Lego creation was imaginary?
I think that the pinnacle of jealousy was reached yesterday, when Pearl had her first appointment with the pediatrician. Poor Pearl had the good fortune to have her ears irrigated five times in an unsuccessful attempt to dislodge impacted wax. She received three shots in her legs. She had blood drawn from her right arm. Flu Mist was squirted into both nostrils. This was all in addition to the general examination and the poopy diaper that resulted from a Miralax dose given to treat constipation. As the poor girl wailed pitiably, Bean grumbled and yelled, "Why does she get everything?"
If there had been a syringe lying unattended, I would have stabbed him with it myself at that very moment just so he wouldn't feel so left out. That is how much I empathized with my poor, neglected firstborn child.
The thing is, though, that I do empathize with him. His life right now is noisier. His schedule has changed. The routines are disrupted. His parents are distracted. The attention is split. Believe me, I get it. I remember thinking to myself (and sometimes saying aloud), "I never asked for a brother!". I remember wondering why my good life had to be ruined by a screaming baby, a messy toddler, an annoying preschooler, a child who always seemed to get away with everything while I was taken to task for everything.
The green-eyed monster and I were no strangers. It's no surprise that he and my Bean are fast friends.
With time, my hope is that Bean will delight in Pearl the way I used to delight in pushing my baby brother on the swing while he shook with unrestrained laughter, or the way I used to marvel that he could hear the ice cream truck before it even turned onto the road leading to our apartment complex. My hope is that the two of them will build forts, storm castles, and race their bikes. I hope that, eventually, they argue about politics at the dinner table, gently tease each other about their prom dates, and roll their eyes together to convey the sentiment that their parents are old and out of touch. I want them to decide who will be the one to tell Angry Driver that he can no longer see well enough to drive, and I would like for them to sit down with me together to break the news that it is time for me to move to an assisted living facility. Many years from today, I want them to gather with their own families and recall their shared childhoods and their parents with laughter and tenderness.
We all want so much for our children. The green-eyed monster only sees the loss and the inconvenience, the noise and the hassle. The parent, though, sees the possibilities.
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