I’m sure I speak for many parents when I say my kids love each other, but spend half their time winding each other up. Sometimes it’s about territorial or toy disputes, while others are just for fun… because these kids don’t have jobs. They have way too much time on their hands.
As Brontë once said, “Sisters are like kids who come over for a playdate then NEVER leave.”
And while Brontë may have a two-year advantage, little blonde-haired, blue-eyed, apple-cheeked Bridget is emerging as a Dark Horse strategist. Whereas Brontë is a dreamy Romantic, inventing sagas about dead queens and ancient civilizations based on the broken fountain in our back yard, Bridget is a wry trickster and absurdist. Brontë is the James Bond villain who scribbles out her master plan on a chalkboard so her cleverness won’t escape the tied-up heroes, whereas Bridget plays her cards close to her chest, feigning baby innocence.
Bridget’s the 4-year-old kid who, stumbling around feverishly last month in a giant blue blanket, bumped into her dad, took her thumb out of her mouth, and said, “I love you dad. I no kill you today.”
Brontë is Order, and Bridget is Chaos. After I finished putting Bidgie’s hair up into two ponytails yesterday, Brontë said:
“So you got your Harley Quinn hair today, Bridget? Things might get crazy.”
And they were… for the girls, who wouldn’t quit poking each other in the chest. We were eating lunch when Brontë decided it would be a great time to learn some meteorology while tattling on her sister…
Brontë: Hey, can I go feel the weather?
Brontë (walking into the sun): It’s a PERFECT day to swim!
Me: We can go swimming if you want.
Brontë: Yay! Hey, remember yesterday when Bridget tried jumping off the diving board without her floaties on?
Bridget (scrunching face): STOP IT, Brontë!
Me: No. It probably happened with dad.
Brontë: Yeah, she was a bad girl.
Bridget: YOU a BAD girl!
Brontë: How does it rain, mama?
Me: Umm… well, water evaporates and… when conditions are right, it falls back down. It has to do with pressure. We can look it up together, if you want.
Brontë: It starts with a sprinkle, and…
Bridget: THERE IS NO RAIN IN HELL, BRON-TEE!
But Bidgie got her back later. Because Bridget’s vocabulary has exploded in the past few months and she’s mostly using her newfound skills to work up her sister. They were playing with crayons at the table when…
Brontë: What are you drawing?
Bridget: Harry Potter.
Brontë: But that’s a GIRL…
Bridget: No. See, has glasses. That Harry Potter.
Brontë: Harry Potter has SHORT, BLACK hair and SHE has BLONDE PONYTAILS!
Brontë: YES, THAT IS A GIRL WITH BLONDE PONYTAILS. NOT HARRY POTTER!!!
Bridget: That Harry Potter.
Brontë (throwing her arms up and running out of the room): THAT IS NOT HARRY POTTER! THAT IS BRIDGET WITH GLASSES ON!
Bridget (smirking); I win.