I’ll be honest, I’m the first person to admit that I don’t know what I’m talking about.

I didn’t have any siblings who were close to my age. By the time I could form full sentences, my three older sisters had either moved out, or were close to it, and my step-sister and I never lived together. Sibling rivalry, I know it not.

I thought I understood the dynamics from watching my friends with their brothers and sisters. I remember the occasional name-calling or shoving match and thinking that I was glad I didn’t have to share my room, but I don’t remember seeing anyone have complete and utter disdain for a sibling until my kids came along.

Everyone tells me it’s normal. Everyone says that it’s just a phase and my kids will grow up to be kind to each other, but right now things seem awfully bleak.

I understand that it’s hard to be a 13 year old girl, because a long, long time ago I was one. You know how people say there are only two things which are certain; death and taxes? Well, if you’re a girl you can say death, taxes and hormones and when you’re 13, the wicked ones are raging. I would imagine it’s especially hard to be a 13 year girl and have a little brother with special needs. That is something I can’t pretend to comprehend.

What I do know is that my 10 year old son and his many quirks and needs are sometimes painful for all of us, but always painful for some of us. And, by some of us I mean my daughter and only my daughter. Every single thing he does annoys her. Greatly.

When you’re a teenager there isn’t anything worse than not fitting in and her little brother doesn’t. As much as I would love for her to swoop in and be the big sister who helps him with homework, reads to him at night and protects him from bullies, I have accepted this is unrealistic. It’s just not who she is. She’s more of the eye-rolling, never-speaking, ignoring type.

Of course, there are a lot of things I want that I can’t have, but giving up this dream feels harder than most. It wasn’t along the lines of having a home in Hawaii or the leading role in The Notebook alongside Ryan Gosling; this sibling-love thing seemed doable. Instead, it has turned into a sort of love-story gone wrong; mutual admiration morphed into him adoring her and asking about her day and her yelling at him and slamming the bedroom door with an, “UGH!” and “You are so annoying!” thrown in for good measure. I’ve seen people divorce over less.

Maybe I should stop expecting so much from my dreams and just be happy if they don’t end up killing each other.

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My 13 year old daughter has a bi-fold door for her bedroom closet and when it recently came off the track she picked it up and carried it to the hallway. This seemed a perfectly acceptable place for it, given that the additional space in her room is covered with piles of clothing. And, nailpolish. And, possibly a bag of chips.

It probably also seemed a perfectly acceptable place because it’s also where my husband and I put our footboard and side-rails after we got our new bed. A year ago. That’s right, we used our upstairs hallway as storage for over 12 months. Don’t judge me!

So there my daughter’s closet door stood, perilously rested against the edge of her doorjamb. Last night before I went to bed I thought, I need to move that door, because if she gets up in the middle of the night she’s going to run right into it. Then I edged past it and crept to her bed where I gently removed the text books piled up next to her as she slept.

Then I turned around and walked right into the closet door.

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Yesterday morning, our dog almost got run over.

My husband and my son were walking her when she suddenly darted away and into the path of a school bus which, in my husband’s words, “…was not going to stop.” My son witnessed the entire incident.

When they returned home, he was one shaken-up kid and insisted upon giving me a play-by-play.

And, I know it was an honest account of what happened, because after he went on and on about Daisy’s near-fatal mistake, he ended the story with, “It was so terrible! I was scared 3/4 to death!”

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When I was in the fourth grade I painted a picture of a young soldier. He wore a red coat, white pants and a black hat. Apparently, when you’re nine years old and there hasn’t been a war in your lifetime, you take style inspiration from the Revolutionary War.

The painting was good. Was I a child prodigy? No. Did my mom think I was? Yes. Every person who came over for bridge club for the next two months had to see the painting. She was proud. I understand this now because of my daughter’s second grade gourd painting. Yes, gourd. I had it custom-framed and it hangs in our living room. Shut up.

Beyond the fourth grade, I lost my artistic mojo. Sure, there was the pencil sketch of a lion in the seventh grade and the envelopes I designed in order to get pre-sale concert tickets while in college, but it didn’t go beyond that.

Until I discovered Draw Something.

This little iPhone game is making my artistic mojo creep back. I have done a good job of drawing kung fu, spaghetti and crutches. I’ve sketched Barney, gardens and an orchestra. The little soldier in the red coat must be buried in there somewhere, too!

As NOT evidenced by my son guessing this, which I drew:

Him: Stares in disbelief. Looks at me, looks back at the phone. Says, “Mom, I have no idea what this is. I think the thing at the top of the picture is a gray banana, though.” In fairness to him, gray bananas aren’t an uncommon sighting in our fruit basket.

Me: “Let me give you a hint. The thing with the red handle is a tool.”

Him: “Oh! It’s a screwdriver stabbing a gray banana!”

I will not, in fact, be quitting my day job.

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