Young Little Sister
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Young Little Sister
When My Little Sister Wants to Play 'Doctor'
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My sister is 10 years old, and we all try to encourage her to use her imagination and play. In this day and age, I feel like sometimes everyone (including kids) are too busy looking at screens for entertainment instead of entertaining themselves. I try to explain to her that I wish I felt like doing all the things she can, but having chronic fatigue syndrome leaves me very limited.
Naturally, she wants to play games and do things with me. We might play a game on the card table, where I can lay in the chair on the heating pad. She plays restaurant and brings me food. She made her own menu and everything. Then we swap roles and I bring her fake food.
However, after we were done playing restaurant, she wanted to play doctor. This may sound silly, possibly petty or even me just being plain sensitive. I told her alright, we can play that. She asks me why I am there, and of course, playing doctor is no fun if there is nothing wrong with you. Right? It makes sense for a kid to want to have something wrong with the other. That is what playing doctor is anyway.
I just kept hoping she would not bring up my illness. She had done it in the past. She had asked why I was there and even had a cure for it. I wish she did, I guess she wished so too. I had to explain to her over and over how it works. Do I expect her to perfectly understand? Of course not. But it sometimes seems like she does not believe me.
In the end, all she did was say I had strep throat. She then “removed” my tonsils later.
Every time she asks if I want to play doctor, my stomach drops. I am sick of doctors. I am sick of going to doctors with all sorts of things wrong with me and being told there is either nothing they can do or they do not believe me.
I hate that I am this way, and I hate that the very thought of playing doctor fills me with such dread and fear.
I hate that I am 22 years old, and I have enough diagnoses on my chart that it takes up many pages.
I hate that the smallest thing like this triggers all these emotions. I hate explaining it, so I typically don’t.
When my younger sister wants to play doctor, I do. I play with her. I swallow these emotions, because the last thing I need to do is make her feel like she needs to walk on eggshells.
I try my best to not let everything affect me personally, like when people that say, “if you do not have a wheelchair, you should not use the handicap parking.”
It’s those who refuse to believe someone as young as me can relate on a personal level to my grandmother and have numerous health problems.
It’s those using my illness as a joke or a fake reason not to have a job.
It’s those people who direct something at one population, and yet I get offended.
I feel like ableism is real, but I also feel I need to remember not everyone is aware. I was not aware til I got sick at 19. I was not aware of the world of chronic illness.
Educate those around you. Spread awareness not just for the illness you personally have, but the whole spoonie world.
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CFS/ME, Fibromyalgia, and Scoliosis. Possibly IBS. Depression. Married, 24. Taurus and INFJ. Demi.
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Experiments I conducted on my little sister: Part I
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I’m the second child in four. The good thing about this fact is that while growing up, siblings #1 and #3 were both suitable playmates for me. If one of them didn’t want to play, I would simply hang out with the other one. Sometimes I had the luxury of choosing between the two of them.
Sometimes, at night, when my little sister and brother were already in bed and my elder sister didn’t want to play with me, I got bored with ways of entertaining myself. So occasionally, I would quietly sneak into their room, while they were still awake. My sister slept in a loft bed. At her feet, there was a big chair. My creative brain had invented the ultimate sport: get to that chair without getting noticed by her. This was a incredibly slow process, because my sister would be able to catch me with every potential noise I would make. If she simply turned her head and glanced over at the floor she would see me. Sometimes I would lie down on the floor for minutes without moving. Sometimes I would only move one limb per minute.
At times my brother, who slept in the same room, would spot me during this process. His bed was at a normal height. I would make him into my accomplice by quietly gesturing him to keep quiet. He always played along.
When I finally reached the big chair after a long and dangerous journey from the door, I would silently climb onto it. Quietly holding my breath, I would slowly change my weight from one foot to the other, until I was standing on the arms of the chair in ducked position.
At this point, my sister would still be completely unsuspecting of what was about to happen. She was usually just staring at the ceiling, minding her own thoughts, probably thinking about rainbows and sheep.
Out of nowhere, I would jump from behind her bed and scream. As you can imagine, this caused quite a reaction. It scared the hell out of her, time and time again.
It ended up with me laughing hysterically, thinking I was the most successful and hilarious super ninja in the world, and her needing to calm down after having a heart attack. In my mind I had the mad skills of a spy, which one day would prove to be useful in my future detective career.
Then I would just hang out for a bit. We would talk about whatever was on our minds until she got tired or I got bored and I would leave again.
You might think she hated this, but in fact, she really loved it.
These dark little visits gave me an idea.
I’ve always had a curious mind. So sometimes, in order to make sense of the world around me and prove certain theories, I would make my little sister into my own personal test subject.
I had heard about a certain theory that had caught my interest. Supposedly, you dream of the things that you hear around you during your sleep. This was a fascinating concept. It would mean, that you could influence what others dream about. That was even more exciting than lucid dreaming. I decided to test if it worked.
So one night, after my younger siblings fell asleep, I sneaked into their room.
I decided that the best way to test my theory, was by whispering one word over and over again in my sister’s ear. The next day, I would ask her what she had dreamt about. It was a fail-safe plan.
Great thought went into what word I would use. I thought about using a boy’s name from her school, but this was too big a risk. She might not want to share that with me the next day. It should be a word that normally wouldn’t necessarily be in her dreams, but would be very recognizable.
I decided to go with ‘washing machine’.
My sister was lying in bed. She was already dozing off, when suddenly she heard someone hissing into her ear. She opened her eyes, bewildered.
At this point she realised that I, for some reason, was 1. awfully close to her and 2. repeatedly whispering ‘washing machine’ (with a hypnotic rhythm and tone for effect) into her ear.
While still in the middle of my experiment, my sister had clearly awakened. This wasn’t really part of the plan, but as she was awake now anyways, I eagerly asked her what she dreamt about, just now. I was desperate to know if my experiment had worked.
Anything in particular, like… perhaps… a washing machine?
I WASN’T SLEEPING. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
Disappointed with this new piece of information, I decided to confide in her. I told her of my fantastic experiment. She didn’t seem quite as enthusiastic. Clearly, she just wasn’t the kind of person who would recognise the value and beauty of a good science experiment when it is right in front of her.
Oh well. I figured I just needed to try again another time.
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Haha, I love this post! It’s definitely one of my favourites. Everrr. So much fun to read this from your point of view. I’m so going to save this and treasure it. You can illustrate a book: ‘OHANA adventures, crazy monkeys’. Going to be fun… Can’t wait for the rest of the series. ;)
Haha, I’m definitely considering drawing more ;)
Family stories are the best. This is so sweet and silly!
I loved reading this! You should make a children’s book out of this :D
:D Thanks! I have a lot more stories left, so who knows
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This isn’t my story but it’s my 13 year old sister’s. Yes I know, she’s a whore. She doesn’t care about herself and I know I should have stopped it. So I was sitting in a three seat aisle. I was sitting with my sister and a cute 14-15 year old boy. I’m a 20 year old and I’m taking care of her in Colorado while our parents are still living in Germany. So anyways, she was trying to sleep. Or so I thought. I was trying to sleep as well. And then I noticed that she looked at me, examined if I was really asleep. Then I noticed she made sure everyone was else was sleeping. And then she took off her blanket, and unbuckled herself and hopped on to the boys lap. I noticed that she had already been giving him a hand job based on how hard he already was. And then I watched her take off her panties and put the blanket back over herself. And then I heard her moaning softly and saw her bouncing up and down really fast. And then she threw her head back and silently orgasmed. And then started to make out with him and then she crawled back into her seat and started to put herself back together. She started doing her hair and spent a few hours doing her makeup and putting on her outfit for the next day. Then I went and slept for the remainder of the flight. When I woke up there was only one hour left and she was talking to him and they were exchanging numbers and then I got up and got ready. When I came back they were making out again. That’s when I said ” you guys at least used a condom, right? And next time check if there’s anyone awake.” And she had a look of pure terror. So yep my 13 year old sister got into the mile high club before I did.
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One of my goals as a mother has been to teach my children to be comfortable with their bodies. It was easy when they were little. They saw no need to lock bathroom doors or hide while they were changing. Clothes were nothing more than an obstacle to their play that they would seize any opportunity to slip out of. And I let them.
Whether we were in the house, in the backyard, or even the park, my kids were the ones running about with no shoes, no shirts, and no sermons (from me). My approval didn’t stop other parents from shaking their heads or clucking their tongues, but their contempt was not noticed by my children or internalized by me. As long as my kids were within my eyesight and were wearing some sort of bottom covering, we were doing just fine.
Things changed as they got older. By the time my boys were 8 and 6, they were locking bathroom doors and making sure to always wear shirts, even in the backyard. And I let them. Because, although it saddened me a bit to see how quickly societal norms had squelched their free spirits, ultimately what I wanted them to learn was that they were in charge of their bodies. And if, for whatever reason, they wanted to keep them completely covered, that was their choice, too.
Then my daughter came along. Like her brothers before her, she was happiest when she was barefooted and naked-bellied. Unlike them, however, she didn’t outgrow it… at least not yet. She will be 7 next week and I still have to remind her that she NEEDS to wear a shirt for school. Her favorite thing is to roll around in the grass with nothing more than underwear—which she wears begrudgingly. She says the world feels more real when she can feel it with all of her skin and that being naked(ish) is like being a “wild, free fairy.”
And so I let her. Certainly she needs to wear clothes at school and when we’re out in the world, but at home, in our backyard, she is free to dress in a way that makes her feel comfortable.
The problem is that her comfort has been making my 10-year-old son uncomfortable. Yesterday my daughter came downstairs in her underwear and sat down to eat breakfast. My son’s eyes narrowed and his shoulders tensed up.
“Make her put clothes on, Mom. She’s too old. It’s gross! I can’t eat with her next to me like that.”
I told him that he could sit somewhere else if he wanted to and tried to change the subject to something less contentious. As my daughter and I chatted about an upcoming trip, I noticed that my son had grown quiet. His eyes glistened with the tears he was trying desperately to hold back. I came closer and put my hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it away.
“She’s too old to be naked all the time. It makes me uncomfortable. Please make her get dressed.”
My daughter’s fiery temper immediately kicked in. “I can dress however I want! It’s my body!”
He was sad and she was angry and I was unsure as to how to handle the situation. I let him take his bagel into the living room while I thought it through some more.
The thing is, I want my son to feel good at home. He’s a shy, sensitive kid and he really values having a place where he can be comfortable. Part of me wanted to just insist that my daughter start wearing clothes outside of her bedroom. But then I thought about what it’s like to be a teenage girl, and a young woman… and even a middle-aged one. About how we are hit with a constant barrage of expectations and judgments about how we should look and talk and dress.
Yes, my son was uncomfortable with how his sister was dressed, and yes, his discomfort makes me sad, but he won’t be the last man to feel that way. One day, there will be an older man on a train who believes her shirt is too revealing, a boyfriend who thinks her dress is too frumpy, and a predator who finds her jeans too tempting. People will recoil from the fire in her eyes and the knots in her hair and the passion in her voice. They will move away from her loud laughter and quick tears and sporadic leaps of joy.
And that will be their choice. Just as it was my son’s choice to eat breakfast in the other room. But if I start telling my daughter now that her brother has the right to choose what clothes she wears, what will be the next right that she relinquishes to an uncomfortable male?
I had a long talk with my son after breakfast. We talked about how sometimes I let him wear shorts on days that I’m wearing a down coat because it’s his body and he experiences things differently than I do. I told him that it’s important to respect other people’s clothing choices, even if he doesn’t always understand them. I reminded him about the time he saw me being cat-called by a man using vulgar words and how badly that made me feel.
“It’s not the same, Mom. That guy liked that you were wearing a short skirt. I hate when my sister doesn’t wear enough clothes.”
He’s right. It’s not the same. And yet, on some level, it is. They’re both judgments made on a female’s choice of clothes. Once girls begin to internalize those voices, they often lose their own.
My daughter will continue to dress in her underwear for breakfast if she feels like it. And no one will say a damn thing about it. Because I won’t let them.
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