Sibling Rivalry

Sibling Rivalry

As a child of the 1950’s, my earliest memories have slowly faded from the brightly colored experiences of life to the gray tones of the black and white photographs tucked away in dusty boxes, forgotten drawers, and yellowing albums.  One of those black and white memories is celebrating our birthdays growing up.  It’s a cold winter’s day in January and I am making my annual pilgrimage to back home to once again celebrate my only sibling’s birthday like we have for over sixty years.

I truly cherish the time spent with my brother and the way it reconnects me to those happy times growing up together.  But, that wasn’t always the case.  I guess all kids compete for their parents’ affections; some driven by simple sibling rivalry and some driven by an inner inferiority that causes us to question if maybe, just maybe, mom and dad really don’t like us as much as our siblings.  Then, in our child’s mind, we concoct examples to prove that our parents not only like us as much as our sibling, but actually like us more.

I can vividly recall competing for mom and dad’s affections growing up.  My brother, who is two and one half years older, was always stronger, faster, and smarter than me. He had all of the firsts – first to go to school, first to get to drive, first to move away from home.  If I weren’t so young at the time, I would also remember he was the first to walk, the first to talk, and the first to do all those baby things that were captured in so many photos of him and so few photos of me.  So, as a kid, I tried to construct at least one example that would show that Mom and Dad still liked me, if not the best, at least equally.

Eventually, I decided that on our birthday celebrations were the clearest evidence of the way Mom and Dad really felt about their two sons.  Steve’s birthday fell on January 24th.  After we arrived home from school, we would celebrate his birthday with our normal family meal followed by a birthday cake and presents.  Then, it was off to do homework before bedtime.  Occasionally, his birthday would fall on a weekend and we didn’t have to do homework so we could have cousins over to help celebrate on an otherwise cold and dreary winter day.

My birthday, on the other hand, fell on July 29th.  We would celebrate my birthday at the creek.  We would swim, fish, cook hot dogs and marshmallows over a campfire, open birthday presents on the gravel bar, and always have plenty of cousins to help celebrate.  To top it off, Dad only consistently took off work on two days per year – Christmas and my birthday.  What more evidence was needed than Dad taking the day off work on the birthday of our Savior and on MY birthday?

Years later, I realized the celebrations had nothing to do with the level of affection of our parents and everything to do with the season of the year.  The celebration of my birthdays at the creek had more to do with Mom reminiscing about her own childhood growing up on the banks of Beaver Creek and Dad remembering courting the Roberts’ youngest daughter at Old Hilda than the birthday of their youngest son.

Now, I cherish my brother’s January birthdays and the time we get to spend together on the family farm.  Often, we simply do the chores that I despised as a child and relish as an adult.  Shortly before her death, my mom told me that nothing, absolutely nothing, that she and Dad had accumulated over the years – the farms, the house, the treasured trinkets, their bank accounts, nothing, would be more important than the relationship with my brother . . . and she was so right!

Happy Birthday to my Brother!  Many More!

P.S. We will celebrate mine come July!