SISTERS

by Robyn Conley

Boy, was I ever wrong.

In the summer of 1972, I already had one pesky little sister, I certainly didn't need another. Rachelle was a Kindergartener who talked constantly and mastered the art of finding trouble no matter what caught her attention. Then one scorching Texas afternoon, sister number two caused the sweat to pour a little faster with her premature birth.

Rikki wasn't a total surprise, at least not from my nine-year-old perspective. Mom's figure had ballooned since we left school the previous May. She also slotted more and more chores for my nimble size. Scouring bathrooms, washing dishes, folding laundry, and tracking Rachelle took quite a bite out of my play time.

After a few days Rikki came home. Without so much as a blink, a new job was attached to my "to do" list--cleaning disgusting cloth diapers. A couple of weeks later a crib appeared in our room. Since Mom was nearly deaf, although she could read lips when someone spoke to her, she couldn't hear Rikki's crying. I was then elected messenger of the late night feedings, which wouldn't have been so bad except for the looks Mom gave me when I rustled her out of a well-deserved slumber. Sheesh.

When Mom went back to work I was put in charge of simple meals and bottle preparations. No wonder little sisters were not my favorite topic for the next couple of years. My responsibilities grew with each change in our family . . . changes which eventually ended in divorce and a 1200 mile separation from Rikki by the time I was fifteen. Rachelle and I wound up in the same house for a short time, with a constant evolving "home life." Since I had my driver's license, I wasted no time in finding a job--unfortunately that left Rachelle to inherit the chores I used to do.

Twenty plus years later, we girls have chosen to live within a few miles of each other. When we talk about childhood years, we do so cautiously, knowing we all have our own tender spots--soul bruises from situations we had little control over. Yet, what always amazes me--the thing I still don't believe I deserve when remembering my preteen resentment--is the way they treat me with such respect and love.

They call when they're sad. They call when they're ecstatic. They call when they need someone they can depend on, and know I'm the one who has been that person for them most often in their lives.

And my how I enjoy their differences. Rachelle, with a thick Texas twang, is a practical thinking, dark-skinned, brown-eyed beauty. She still sparkles with mischief and predictable rounds of chatter. Rikki talks with a slight northwest dialect, has a super brain, green eyes, and a bouncy energy that could keep me just as wiped out today as when I chased her toddling bottom across playgrounds.

Ironically, my house serves as gathering place for holidays or when one of them needs a time-out from work or kids. And our children, more like siblings than cousins, enjoy today what we missed out on when our original family dissolved. We've provided them a taste of security, an example of give-and-take, and simple compassion and reliability. Not too bad for a group of girls who were led by a sometimes grouchy big sister, grumbling about cloth diapers.

I've never been so happy to admit I was so wrong.

EMAIL ROBYN

back to top