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 10 year old son is small. Since kindergarten, he has been the oldest and the smallest in his class.

One of the reasons that we chose a small, private school is because, for the most part, everyone knows each other. The parents understand that my son is not a typical child and many of them have discussed his differences with their own children. It has created an atmosphere where my son is comfortable and where the kids are, mostly, kind to him. (Note to the three boys who make fun of my child: You’re going to want to knock that off, m’kay?)

Each year we have an influx of families who have never met my son and some of them are surprised when they find out he is 10 years old. Of course, adults do a much better job of hiding their shock than kids do and it isn’t uncommon for a new student to ask my boy how old he is and upon hearing the answer to say, “Wow. You’re little for 10!”

Just two ten year old friends, kickin’ it.

I recently overheard a boy say this to him, so the other night I casually mentioned it while making dinner. I picked up his 48 pound frame, placed him on the kitchen counter and said, “I know kids sometimes tell you how small you are. What do you say to them?”

He replied, “Well sometimes I say, ‘I know I’m small. People come in all different shapes and sizes.'”

I went on with my cucumber cutting and nodded. “Good answer.”

He continued, “And, sometimes I tell them that I really like being short because when I walk along the creek with Daddy, I don’t have to duck when we go under the little bridges.”

For that, my boy got a high-five. What he lacks in size, he makes up for in logic.

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I had a random post planned for today and then I got a weekly email from one of my daughter’s teachers where she keeps parents in the loop with assignments, test dates and discussions. This is much appreciated, as pulling such info from a 13 year old is quite a chore. I can barely get her to say, “Good morning.”

This sentence of the teacher’s email stopped my post-writing in its tracks: I will also use some religion and social studies time…to talk about 9/11. I am entering those years where none of the students have any memory of something that was so lifechanging for all of us.

It’s hard to believe that a day so crisp in my memory, is not even a glimmer in the child’s with whom I spent that fateful day. I’ve told my daughter the story over and over; how she was watching Barney, my husband called, we went to the library, they sent everyone home, I watched the south tower fall and fell to my knees, then watched both towers fall over and over and over until it was all I could dream about that night. I’ve told her about the beautiful blue sky and the quiet. It was so quiet. It’s odd that among the terror and chaos, what stands out to me is the silence and stillness of that day.

But, she doesn’t remember because she wasn’t even three years old and part of me is very glad about that.

I will keep remembering for both of us.

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I have been known to worry. A little. Okay, a lot. In all fairness to myself my worrying is not for naught, because I am also graced with really bad luck.

My husband is always quick to tell me to stop with the hand-wringing, already. Sure, it would be nice if he gently smacked my hands when I’m picking at my cuticles or if he would quietly tell me to have a seat if I’m pacing the floor. Instead he says, “Quit freaking out!” and leaves it at that.

Last week, we were getting ready to go to my mom’s house for dinner when my 13 year old daughter came downstairs wearing athletic shorts, a t-shirt, running socks and dressy, black flats.

I wouldn’t want her to have to go upstairs and change, or anything, because OH, THE EFFORT, but I couldn’t just let her walk out the door looking like that. I said, “You can’t wear those shoes with that outfit.”

She looked down and had apparently lost her vision, because she eyed her feet and then asked, “Why not?”

I shook my head. “Because! Do you really want someone to see you like that? What if we get in an accident on the way there?”

My husband countered with his anti-anxiety speech, “Seriously, you’re worried about that? What if I die on the way there!”

And even though no one asked him, my son looked at his dad and said, “Well, then I’d ask Mom to drive.”

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