Young Sister Taboo

Young Sister Taboo
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Sleeping With My Sisters

By Adele Slaughter

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Cookie Jar
by
Stephen King

The Male Glance
by
Lili Loofbourow

Prince of Peace
by
Lauren Markham

Fear Factors
by
Veronique Greenwood

Omnipresence
by
Ann Neumann

Nights we all piled into the same double bed.
Five girls, a huddled mass of elbows and rear ends.
Each one massaging, scratching, begging
another to rub her back.
The little two got crammed in between
our arm pits, honeysuckle on the vine.
All those girls and I was the biggest,
the one that took everything first,
even stepped on a rusty nail
saving my sisters the shot, the infection.
Mary fought me—
a sister with more hip and bigger breasts.
She was choppy: red cut curls, round stormy eyes.
Her nails bitten, not any moon showing.
Contrary, a curl, so proud of being so very good
and so very bad.
Sister—dark and wild.
Her hips are wide and spread easily
but tight like a wet wish bone
she opens to let men in.
They only get one wish
which they can’t tell.
She was like humid weather,
something I learned to endure.
Her temper sat in a cold bucket
turning her white skin red.
When her lower lip shoved out
the others gave her anything she wanted
to keep her calm,
but not from me. Not from me.
Fighting was a kind of loving in our family.
That Sunday all us girls were crammed in the back seat
I got the window
She pinched my thigh.
After church, I took the bottom sheet off her bed.
She ripped the bedding off mine
leaving me a bare mattress and a bed to make.
I threw her sheets and blankets down the stairs.
A rage of hot wind flew at me.
I turned, raised my right hand.
Stop it Mary, please stop.
My fist landed in the middle of her back. Hard.
Winded she slumped. Sobbed.
Her fingertips scratched the wooden floors.
It is nightlife now. He rises above me
looking like a man on a cross,
his hands supporting himself over my body.
His right leg tucked behind his left,
he is pushing himself into me
searching for a sweet spot.
I press my legs into the small of his back.
Just as I climb up toward his breath
I miss sleeping with those sisters—
I miss the honeysuckle I used to pick and suck
those sweet insides—sweet yellow pollen fills my lungs
and they are in my skin, rubbing my back,
tangled in the sheets. Please, little sister
please rub my back just a little longer.
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| ‘Sleepovers’ With My 9-Year-Old Daughter

By Amy Arndt
October 7, 2012 8:00 am
October 7, 2012 8:00 am

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When I was in high school in the late ’80s, I took a job baby-sitting for a single mother with a 9-year-old boy. I didn’t know the family well. The father was absent from the situation, and the mother
appeared overwhelmed. The kid ran the show, and he got what he wanted by throwing fits, stomping his feet and pouting. The mother doted on her son, and spoke to him in a syrupy baby talk that made my skin crawl.
On my first day on the job, the mother took me on a tour of the house. When we got to her bedroom, the bed was unmade on both sides, and we stood there uncomfortably while I cringed at the thought that this rather unpleasant
woman had not slept alone. After a moment of silence, the mother shrugged apologetically and fessed up: her sleeping companion was her son. Given that I was a teenager and felt I was an expert on child psychology,
I quickly determined that the child’s behavioral problems were linked to the fact that he still slept with his mother.
Some 25 years later, I’m married with two teenage stepchildren and a 9-year old daughter. Because of our unique situation (five people in a three-bedroom home, custody schedules, etc.), the sleeping arrangements
can get quite creative. Yet one thing remains consistent: on Tuesday nights, my husband sleeps on the couch in the living room, and my 9-year-old daughter sleeps with me.
Confessing this publicly is not easy, because I’m a highly opinionated woman who has been known to change her mind on a variety of issues. Before the birth of my daughter, I bragged endlessly about my plans to
breastfeed. Yet despite a large investment in a private lactation consultant and a breast pump that rivaled a Dyson DC41 Animal, I produced about four drops of milk. As soon as I cracked open the first can of formula,
I shut my mouth and got back to taking care of business, and life was better for all of us, most important, our infant.
So despite the fact that I once thought that a 9-year-old sleeping with a parent was a terrible idea, I have to eat my words. I don’t know exactly how the Tuesday night sleepovers started, but it’s one
of my favorite nights of the week. I work full time, and this is time I spend catching up with my daughter. We hop in bed, talk about our days, watch lousy TV and cuddle.
Unlike the conversations in the car, where I’m distracted or stressed, or the big family dinners, when everyone talks at the same time, our sleepover nights allow for uninterrupted time to tackle the Big Questions
of Life. I’ll hear about problems at school, answer questions on religion, and attempt to explain puberty without sounding like a seventh-grade health teacher. Most of these nights, my daughter asks me to
sing her to sleep, and I bask in the glory that at this point in her life, she still thinks I can sing like Adele.
Take an informal poll of other parents, and you may discover that unique sleeping arrangements are not unusual. Several single, divorced mothers have confessed to me that they let their kids sleep with them. It’s
for a variety of reasons – some do it because they feel they can be closer to protect their child, others admit it’s filling a void and easing the aftermath of a tough divorce. Some parents tell me
that an occasional sleepover with a kid isn’t a big deal at all. And then you have parents who have taken the Ferber Method so seriously that the mere thought of having their kid in bed with them sends them
straight to the child psychologist.
At the end of the day, it’s about choices. I am going to blink twice, and my 9-year-old, who already practices rolling her eyes at me like a sassy-pants teenager, is going to have absolutely zero interest in
hanging out with me, much less participate in a sleepover. So until things change, I’ll cherish our Tuesday nights, and keep on cranking out the lullabies as long as I have a daughter who requests them.
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We're all living the family dynamic, as parents, as children, as siblings, uncles and aunts. At Motherlode, lead writer and editor KJ Dell’Antonia invites contributors and commenters to explore how our families affect our lives, and how the news affects our families—and
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The Times is introducing Well Family, a new online report with expanded coverage of parenting, childhood health and relationships to help every family live well. Read more…

I can’t promise that our foster son can stay with us, but I can I try to prepare him for the possibility of leaving without adding to his fear. Read more…

As much as parents want to know about areas that our children are struggling in, we’re also wondering what teachers like about them. Read more…

By the time children are in middle school, parents should be stepping back. But what if another child won’t stop annoying yours? Read more…

In November, this family adopted five young children from foster care. Read more…
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