We love each other until we cry

I debated about what to title this entry: Sister, Sister? Sister Act? Nah, cliche and silly. So I went with what I find myself saying a lot lately about the two girls: "They love each other so much! In fact, they love each other until they cry!" It's true. They can't seem to resist each other, which in turn gets physical and usually somewhat violent. After a few minutes, they're either both crying or Elaine is crying while Lucy stands there with a "Who? Me?" expression on her face.

First of all, Elaine hates having her hands held. I secretly fear that it's some sort of obsessive compulsive thing. I took her to visit at a nursing home, and all the little elderly ladies did just what is natural when you see a baby--they reached out and tried to hold her fat little hands. She quickly snatched them back as if someone was trying to pour boiling water on her. It was embarrassing. At church, she comes in in her white coat and her white woolly hat that looks like a lamb, complete with ears, and with her rosy cheeks, she's just the dearest thing in the world. And everyone rushes to take her hands in theirs because she's utterly adorable, and she yanks them away rudely. I spend my time apologizing for the compulsions of my one-year-old.

Of course, Lucy has discovered how much Elaine hates this and she revels in it. Want some good fun? Hold Smoochie's hands until she cries! It's a blast! Also, if you're hanging on tightly to her hands, she can't reach out and pull your hair like she normally does! If ever I hear Elaine shrieking, I usually don't even run to check anymore. I just say wearily, "Lucy. Let.go.of.her.hands." This happens, oh, two or three trillion times a day.

We've explained and explained to Lucy. Elaine can't talk. When she says, "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!" in her angry voice and her face is all red, what she actually means is, "No, thank you, Lucy. Please don't hold my hands. I don't care for that at all."

I've never had a sister, so I'm learning all sorts of interesting things just watching these two. My brother was always sweet-natured, not that we never argued, but there never seemed to be any element of torture in his fraternal affection for me. I'm always making up little stories for the girls (don't be impressed, they're mind-numbingly dull), and Lucy asks me to tell them over and over. They're usually some variation of this: "Once upon a time, there were two little girls named Lucy and Elaine. Elaine was crying because she didn't have anyone to play with, so Lucy said, 'Don't worry! I'll play with you!' So they decided to dress up. Lucy wore a yellow gown with yellow shoes and a yellow crown. Elaine wore a pink gown with pink shoes and a pink crown. Mama was so happy they were playing together that she went into the kitchen and baked them two cakes. Lucy's cake was a yellow castle, and Elaine's cake was a chocolate puppy dog. Then the girls came downstairs and ate their cakes and drank lemonade. They sang [to the tune of Frere Jacques] 'We are best friends, we are best friends, we're best friends, we're best friends, we are Lucy and Elaine, we are Lucy and Elaine, we're best friends.' The End." Somehow, I hope these dreary, moralizing little tales sink in eventually. I want them to be good friends--those kind of sisters who bicker congenially but are the best of friends and go to lunch together. The kind you can always count on when you feel friendless in the world. (And, truth be told, who are united in amused exasperation with their mother.) So...that's my hope and what I'm aiming toward.

This past Sunday morning in the car, it was, for a few seconds, uncharacteristically quiet. Then I heard Lucy whisper from the back, "Mom, look! We're making a line!" I turned around and looked. Joined across the back seat in their carseats were those two sisters, hand in hand.