A tale of two sisters

At ages four and nearly-two, my girls have already established a rivalry that will endure for generations.  Historians may one day find it difficult to determine when this rivalry began, and they may be unable to discover who fired the first shot, but there is no doubt someone, somewhere, somewhen will seek to establish the origins of this epic battle.  As one who has lived through these tumultuous times, I’ve taken it upon myself to become the Cicero or Suetonius or Tacitus of our day and chronicle the politicking, scheming, and outright skullduggery of these two embattled Empresses.  This is their story.

Smartypants, once the supreme Equal among a lesser equal (in those fabled days, the lesser equal could not yet crawl or speak), has always taken pleasure in bringing an often mundane world to life.  Aside from the actual human beings and animals living in our house, we had a constant supply of friends tramping through the kingdom.  Many of these friends were inanimate.  Shampoo bottles.  Lotions.  Blocks.  Cups.  Empty milk cartons.  Smartypants, being a kind-hearted ruler, took it upon herself to name them all, establish their family ancestry, and provide voices to those who had none.  It was truly a marvel of imagination.

But her younger sister was eager to challenge Smartypants’ dominance.  As she aged, she looked upon the elder sibling with feigned interest bordering on disdain.  After all, Smiley was old enough to observe—correctly—that shampoo bottles couldn’t speak, nor could they walk as Smartypants imagined.  They were simply possessions, subjects to be governed, useless to a growing child, and certainly of a class far below the aristocratic rank this younger sister had assumed.

Smartypants, sensing her sister’s dislike for her subjects, insisted Smiley stay away from the frolicking fun enjoyed by the Queen and her shampoo bottles.  She closed doors.  She built pillow and couch-cushion enclosures, like imaginary castle walls surrounding her little kingdom.

But Smiley was no dummy, and as she grew older she realized these ramparts and parapets were mere decorations offering only a false sense of security.  And so Smiley laid siege to Smartypants’ kingdom.  She camped outside the walls, begging to be let in, screaming for her sister, oftentimes taunting with the tortuous wail of a toddler.  When the siege failed, she attacked.  She launched her entire body over the cushions.  Sometimes she failed to breach the wall and fell back on her tush.  Other times she landed square in the middle of the Kingdom to pilfer and burn (i.e. to knock down the walls or throw all the inhabitants over them), while Smartypants whined and screamed, demanding she stop, praying to a father figure for assistance that seldom came.

As the sisters aged, shampoo bottles became Barbie Dolls and the rivalry intensified.  Smartypants, having grown older but not necessarily wiser, felt she could control her younger sibling with the simple power of words.  “Please,” she would say, “do not take my Barbies.” And Smiley, ever so devious, would answer, “Okay.” A moment later, Smiley would grab a Barbie Doll and flee, giggling like a madwoman bent on escaping the asylum.  Smartypants immediately demanded a beheading and gave chase to the escaping thief.  She quickly caught up to the smaller sister, and in her haste to take back that which was rightly hers, she’d often knock down the wobbly toddler, who would burst into tears of anger and embarrassment.

And thus our life continues.  Smiley’s raids are frequent and incessant, as are Smartypant’s fits of outrage as she demands (quite violently, from time to time) the return of her kidnapped subjects.

I, being the humble historian, remain uninvolved to the extent that safety permits.  I’ve offered counsel to each young conqueror.  To Smartypants, I’ve talked of sharing, of negotiation, of polite requests for compromise.  And with Smiley I’ve discussed the notion of asking and the topic of listening.  They seem eternally uneager to take my advice, as helpful as it might be to their predicament.  They are, after all, children of privilege bent on ruling the world.

The story, I’m afraid, will continue indefinitely.  They will grow older.  The rivalry shall intensify.  And this casual observer will, from time to time, interject with his advice.  Whether they take it or not may determine my own fate.  For there is only so much bickering a sane man can take before both little Dictatresses get sent to their rooms.

As for who started the rivalry, we can only guess.  I imagine they both played a part.  After all, they are both guilty, and, being two cute little people and my lovely daughters, they are adorably innocent as well.  We’ll leave the ultimate decision to posterity.