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From cradle to grave, the only people you’ll have with you, if you are lucky, will be your siblings.

Sure, even with siblings, one of you has to die first…and depending how mad you make any one of them at any given time, that one could be you.

Siblings, well, mine anyway, have long contemplated, struggled with, questioned, and yes, alas, felt very sorry for themselves based on nothing other than the order of their birth.

The Baby. It doesn’t matter if you have one sibling or several, The Baby is the apple of their parents eye. Why? I’ve wondered that myself…and have come to the conclusion that parents are so relieved to know that there will be no more diapers, no more sleepless nights, no more temper tantrums and time outs that they forgive anything and everything that The Baby can throw at them. The Baby, however, believes that the parents reached perfection with their birth and thus stopped. Suuuuurrrre they did!

The Baby rarely does anything wrong. In fact they rarely do anything. Waited on hand and foot, treated like little prince and princesses, The Baby is general the most spoiled in the sibling group. They have parents doting on them as if this was their last chance to get it right, they’ve screwed up the eldest and middle children so badly. In addition, it is also the fault of the siblings as they too tend to get sucked into the outlandish, manipulative and often hellish demands of The Baby.

What happens, as it did in my sibling family, when many years later…ten in my specific case…another baby comes along? OMG!!!! Well, then the new child becomes The Baby, and the former Baby takes on the role of The Martyr….in addition to The Baby.

The Martyr, or as they are more commonly known, the middle child. OMG!!! Do you know anyone else so hard done by? I know for a fact they are the most persecuted, most ignored, most invisible, most misunderstood people in the world….I know because I am married to a middle child AND I have two siblings who are middle children, one legit, the other a former baby. Their empathy for one another is epic. Marriage counsellors, phycologists and psychiatrists  the world over can only wish for unions of middle children. They’d never run out of clients.

Middle children also fancy themselves, the family peace keepers, the care takers, the ones who have love flowing through their veins and empathy from their pores. The truth is they are the “I can get away with murder” siblings. They know that everyone is watching The Baby being precious, and waiting for the eldest to trip and fall from grace, and so, sneaky and conniving, the Middle looks for ways to get into trouble but never get caught…or at least blamed.

And then we have people like me…the Eldest. The REAL marytrs in the hierarchy of ‘siblinghood’.

Not only are we raised to set the example for our younger siblings, we must assume all blame for any of their shortcomings, failures, insubordination, or inappropriate behaviour. OMG!!!! What’s that all about??? It’s not our fault those little rotters don’t listen or do as they’re told!

We are expected, no, forced,  to share everything we own with our siblings…or else! Then, when we loan them our brand new toy and they break it, we are the ones punished!! WHAT????? I didn’t break it!!!

When you throw into the mix, the three siblings that live with you under the same roof  all happen to be female, HMPFT…the dynamics really change.  You can’t even have your own time of the month for gawd’s sake!! Those sisters of a similar age will move heaven and earth to have their cycle match yours. It’s almost demonic!

And forget wardrobes! It’s bad enough that you rarely get new clothes, but wear hand me downs from the family up the street or cousins in other provinces, but when you DO get something new???? ALL of you get something new…and matching. Yes, okay the colour may be different but when you are fourteen who the hell wants to dress like a 12 year old, even if she is more mature than you are? Or worse a 10 year old!!! Dear mother of gawd!!! Weren’t your parents ever put through this same form of hell on earth? What part of their own torture did they forget???

And then it dawns on you…The Parents remember…and this is their grudge taking birth in the form of retribution against you, their own child! Their first born!!! OMG!!! What kind of monsters are these people?

Then, it happens….it starts as a small dot of light…you just catch it from the corner of your eye, but when you turn quickly to look…it’s gone. Was it ever really there? But then, slowly, over time, over hours, then days, and finally months and years, slowly…ever so slowly …the dot becomes a glimmer, the glimmer, an orb…and then? Then the paradigm shifts. And much to the dismay…and fear…of The Parents, you and your sibling become allies. Friends. There is a common enemy and it is the unfair, nasty, tainted, poisonous people you have been placed with…for by now, you suspect…actually, you are certain, that you are ADOPTED. That your real parents are Ward and June Cleaver.

You keep that little gem tucked away. It’s your ace to get out of this hole. You know, in your heart of hearts that Wally and the Beav are your real siblings and that with brothers, you, the only girl will be the darling of the family. You know that your brothers will protect and adore you rather than compete with you, and your real parents will shower you with love and affection, for how can they not? Your brothers are both older than you! You will be The Baby!!!

And then, you look in the mirror. Your fate is sealed. You are not adopted. The face looking back is the younger, more feminine face of your father. You can’t deny it….no more than he can. You do have three siblings and they are all sisters. That too is a fact.

Time passes, you grow up, you have your own life. And so do all your siblings. The rivalry is still there, but now it takes on more of a joshing, teasing form. Oh, you still argue, disagree, get jealous, get pious, get even. You even go through periods of not speaking. You hurt one another.

And all of it is because you know: you are siblings. Sisters. They are yours and you are theirs. To love, to take advantage of, to abuse, but let there be absolutely NO mistake. God help the outsider who does anything to hurt any of them, because He will be the only one to protect them from your rage. You have now, have always, and will forever had their backs:  Sisters cradle to grave.

A few months ago I decided it was time to get off my ever expanding duff and get healthy….and I mean in ever sense of the word: physically, spiritually, emotional and mentally.

As any of you following my blog know,  I’ve had some things I hadn’t dealt with and I finally decided to take the bull by the horns and get a handle on  this pain I’ve been carrying around…a lot of it for my whole life.

I have been writing since I was a very young girl, and it has always been both a release and one of the best medicines I have ever had access to. I have used my writing to earn a living and to help me through some of the most difficult times of my life. It is cathartic. A lifeline in my darkest moments.

I still write letters too…although now I type them, rather than setting pen to paper. Most of my letters are to dead people. Weird? No, not really.

Often, when things are really weighing heavy on my heart, my soul, my mind, I will write to one of the two wisest, dearest women in my life…both now my guardian Angels. One was my grandmother; the other my first husbands mother…my “Mum in heart”. Both were strong influences in my life and both mother figures.

When I need advice, I still turn to them. I sit and pour my heart out, putting the words I find difficult to form in the verbal, down on paper in the written form. The process is totally unstructured…usually without a single point or thought…mostly rambling, confusing to anyone else, but conversational and poignant. Often I type through tears and when I am done the page is covered in red lines, pointing out my spelling errors…looking like my own blood has been splattered across the page.

Metaphorically speaking, it usually has been my blood. With these two women I never hold back. Usually, by the time I am done, I am spent,  drained, exhausted. And so, I sit…my mind blank by this time,  void of any emotion. Silenced. But with my heart wide open. I am listening. Waiting. I know that if I am willing, they will answer, holding me, guiding me, comforting me, still loving me unconditionally. The faces of love.  

I also write to my father, mostly about things more tangible. My grandchildren, politics: we loved debating politics, he and I. I like to tell him about the books I’m reading, the places I’ve travelled to, new people  I have met and my first impressions of them.   I brag too…about me….my successes, things I’ve done…like the hang gliding! He’d have been cheering me on during that adventure! People have always told me that I  am my father’s daughter…I look like him, am self reliant like him, strong like him, and I am proud of that.

The other person I have written too over the last 40+ years is Jack, my first husband and father of my two biological children. I used to write to Jack when we were married, after we divorced, and after he died more than 20 years ago. He never saw any of the letters I wrote when he was alive…I generally wrote them out of anger, sadness, regret…and once I got all of it out on paper, I’d tear them up or burn them. Now I just hit delete on the computer. Mostly I write about our two children, my relationship with them, their relationships, their children, their successes, struggles and challenges.

Cathartic. An unusual word for what writing provides me. A place to vent, rant, rage, sob, question and probe. But mostly, writing provides a safe place for me. To heal, to grieve, to express love, to listen. To be vulnerable…without appearing weak.

If I am still, and open, and willing to listen, I always, always, get an answer. It may not always be the answer I expect…or want, but it is always the answer I need. For me, writing these letters is akin to prayer.  They lighten my load and give me the courage to move forward in this wonderful journey we call life.

Television has always been a mystery to me. Like my great grandmother before me, I still don’t understand how they get the pictures in the box.

My daughter would tell you that I am electronically challenged….which may be a stretch. I can perfectly well set the digital clock on the microwave thank you. I no longer have to on the VCR because we don’t own one any more. Ok, on occasion, I may have to phone her and ask how I get the TV to show the DVD I’m trying to watch, but electronically challenged? PLA-EASE!

I have come to the conclusion that the term “Smart TV” may be the greatest oxymoron of the 21st century. I also don’t understand the criteria used for naming channels and the programming shown on those channels. Most are  paradoxes.

Take, for example, TLC, or The Learning Channel. When we subscribed, I thought it would be a channel I’d really enjoy…learn something new everyday is how I sold my sweetheart on it. How motors work, how styling foam goes from a liquid to a foam when you push the button on the can. It’ll be great!! Brain exercise I said! You know my motto…a day where you learn something new is a day not wasted. Heck, we might even finally be told the secret of how they get the caramel in the chocolate bar!!

Duh!!! As Forrest Gump said, ‘stupid is as stupid does.’

IF I were to chose to watch TLC, which I rarely do, I wouldn’t learn any of those things mentioned above…or, in my opinion, anything else worth knowing, except perhaps for a game of Trivial Pursuit in the category of Entertainment (TV).

Instead, I could learn how to cope with 19 kids, totally irrelevant in my life (blessings come in all forms!!).

I could find out what not to wear, rather than what to wear….something a good honest look in the mirror will tell me if I can be objective enough to get over my love of that flannel lined plaid shirt that my sweetheart calls my “Columiban drug trafficker shirt”…which begs the question what columbian drug trafficker wears pastels?

There is a show called “Sex Sent Me to the ER” that might be interesting…or gross. TMI (Too Much Information) is my biggest fear, so think I’ll take a pass.

Then we have A&E, Arts and Entertainment. I think they forgot the art bit…and yes I know art is in the eye of the beholder and all that, but come on! “Duck Dynasty”? Really? (I know, given the popularity of the show I run the risk of being inundated with hate mail on the comment section of my blog…I’ll take the chance.)

“Storage Wars” (pick your state, town or subdivision and add to the title…they can all be found here). Okay, to give this one the benefit of the doubt, maybe this is where the art comes into play. Perhaps an original Van Gogh, or a Beatles song draft, hand written by one of the fab four, on the back of a cigarette package might turn up. Could happen.

The History channel! Now, we’re getting somewhere! Surely “Canadian Pickers” will turn up treasures of historical value….or not. But there are some cool finds according to dear hubby who follows it faithfully. 

We all know that reruns of one of my favourite shows…”M.A.S.H”. ….are historically accurate, especially those scenes between Frank Burns and Hot Lips Houlihan.

“Ice Pilots NWT” while set in the current day in my town, touches on history, with the shows main character…the DC3 airplane….and of course “Ancient Aliens” is fodder for those of us old enough to remember Roswell and/or Shag Harbour…or Jim Jones and the kool-aid…

Maybe it’s just me, but I want my entertainment TV shows about reality to be fiction. I don’t need voyeurism, classism, or any other ‘isms’…except escapism. Take me away Calgon®! 

I enjoy the Documentary channel, and a lot of what’s on Knowledge and PBS…but mostly I think the TV executives have really dumbed it down. Even ‘news’ programs have taken on the flavour of tabloid ‘journalism’ .

So yes, TV remains a mystery to me, but so does the human need to know what boo-boo Honey is dealing with today,  or why, and how, the Kardashians took over some city…was it a coup(e)…or just a soft top convertible?

Now if you were to ask me how Mork came to earth, or why A.L.F. and Mr. T were so successful, I’d refer you to Q….not with  Jian Ghomeshi…but of Star Trek legend…because I can’t answer those mysterious questions either.

Live long and prosper.