I hated my sister because she was four years younger than me. I hated her because I had to take her everywhere with me. On all my playdates. It would have been okay, would she have just sat silently by herself in the corner, but no, she wanted to join our fun! She was nothing short of a monster! Wanted to play with our barbies! Steal our joy, basically! And because she was four years younger and because she turned to crying when she didn’t get the nice barbie with the good hair (yep) a parent would quickly come and tell us that because we were older of course we should give her the pretty barbie.
How does that even make sense??? Because I am four years older my sister gets to play with the princess barbie while I get stuck with the…pleb barbie? Shut the fuck up! Usually you’re telling me because I am ONLY 8 years old I can’t do this I can’t do that. Can’t drink alcohol, can’t take drugs, can’t go to da club! Also, I can’t stay up as long as I want? Why? What will happen if I do? Be tired? Wow, terrible! Really! Great threat!
But now, because I am ALREADY 8, I have to give my sister the barbie with the long blond silky hair? This makes no sense at all!
Really the only power I had against her was an ancient knowledge that only young siblings have – knowledge that later in life is lost to most. It is the power of the fart. The mere threat of farting in someones face “Stop it or I’ll fart in your face” or later “Stop it, I’ll fucking fart in your face!” was…potent. It could stop her from stealing my sweets, could stop her from hitting me, from kicking me, from entering my room.
But I guess I must have loved her too, because I remember that for a number of years we had a ritual during supper time. It was in fact more a game of psychological warfare. We would eat, all the while watching each other’s plates. The goal was to be the one that still had “good food” (usually the meat) left on our plates while the other was left stuck with their vegetables, or worse, with no food at all. My sister at the time was a lot greedier than me, so while she tried to eat slowly in the beginning and follow me in hiding pieces of steak underneath salad leaves, she did not have my willpower. And so I won, every time. My moment of victory was presented with a war cry: “muhahahahah, I still have my steak, na na na naaa na!”
My sister however soon realised that if she finished eating before me and then snuck underneath the table and pretended to be a cute dog (I didn’t even like dogs, but my little sister as a puppy dog was a lot more adorable than my sister just being my sister) and would howl-cry, begging for a bite of my food. I aaaalways! gave her some of mine, a bite of my meat even! It was a true testament of my love for my sister. I guess I really really love/hated her. My sister, the adorable tyrant.